


To England Where my Heart Lies

by goddessdster



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Fairy Tales, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, post-s8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:03:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3281237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddessdster/pseuds/goddessdster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What sense is there in pain at all--however we contrive it for ourselves as we cast about for ways to bind up the wound between us and God?"<br/>-- Anne Carson</p><p> </p><p>  <i>He had thought he would talk about the cases.  The children lost.  The dubious decisions he’d made in order to do his job.  Will and Feardorcha and Scarlet and God.  He had at least believed he would have a word or two to say about God.  Instead, when he’d started talking, he had talked about Robbie Lewis, about the ways he had allowed himself to change as Lewis’s Sergeant, and the ways he hadn’t even realized he’d changed by simply being, wanting to be, needing to be, a part of Robbie’s life.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	To England Where my Heart Lies

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction, and includes future-casting of weather, approximations of past dates, and American spelling.

**faith, trust, and pixie dust**

1 June, 2013

Three hours before he was to be at the airport, James brought most of his belongings to the storage room, for which he’d pre-paid for half a year. To his friend Gerald’s he brought his guitar and one box of important papers, favorite books, and a copy of his travel itinerary. While Gerald was heating up his ancient Citroen for the drive to the airport, James phoned Robbie, knowing he was on holiday with Laura and ignoring his mobile, and left a message stating he was “off to do some traveling around Spain for a short bit” and would ring upon his return. He then placed his mobile in the box sitting next to his guitar, picked up the pack he was bringing, and walked to the car, deliberately ignoring the curious feeling of being both weighted and elated by his lie.

Less than a day later, James was standing at the start of the Route de Napoleon considering his walk across the Pyrenees into Spain. Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens. Well, this road wasn’t dark, but bright with early morning sun and James felt empty, the lightest he’d ever experienced, similar to his early days at Cambridge, when he’d realized his life was his own to define. Even burdened with the purpose of what he believed was his calling, James had known he was untethered and free to undertake this calling on his own terms. This was the same, wasn’t it? 

“And still, after all this time, the Sun has never said to the Earth, ‘You owe me.’ Look what happens with love like that. It lights up the sky.” 

James turned to the person who’d just spoken, surprised to see a small old woman standing next to him. She smiled big, and punched him in the arm.

“Good morning,” he said, perplexed.

“Buenos dias,” she replied. She reached into the bag hanging off her shoulder, pulled out an apple, polished it on the front of her shirt, and handed it to him.

James took it on reflex. It was golden red and perfectly shaped. “Gracias.”

“No problem, kiddo. Have a safe pilgrimage,” she said, swatting his arm again before turning and walking back toward St. Jean Pied de Port.

“It’s not a pilgrimage! I’m just going for a walk,” he called after her retreating form, but she either didn’t hear him, or ignored him, as she walked away.

James shook his head while rubbing his arm. Day one, already looking promisingly weird. He bit into the apple.

It was perfect.

 

 

**The Iron Shoes**

 

October 2014

The evening had started on a positive note, but after a quiet moment, Robbie seemed out of sorts, and not in a way James could quite understand. Something about the way his brow was furrowed concerned him. He wanted to ask. Could he ask? He probably shouldn’t ask.

“Robbie?”

Robbie stopped mid-swallow and raised his eyebrows. Then, seeming to read whatever it was James was not asking, waved his hand. “All right, James.”

Could leave well enough alone at this point. But, “Our repentance is not so much regret for the ill we have done as fear of the ill that may happen to us in consequence.” At Lewis’s raised eyebrows, he continued, “Francois de la Rochefoucauld, 17th Century moralist.” He raised an eyebrow. “Nietzche was a fan.” James dipped his head and took a long drink from his pint.

“Oh, leave off, you! I think I’ve had enough of other people’s moral views for a lifetime.” 

But Robbie was smiling, gathered up into himself once again in a way that made James’s world feel safe and more predictable.

“Perhaps you’d prefer, 'If we had no faults, we would not take so much pleasure in noticing those of others.'”

“So it’s going to be one of those nights, is it?”

“You started it. Impressing me with the Tennyson,” James said.

“How about my personal favorite, Nobody likes a smartarse.”

“You keep saying that, Robbie, but I have yet to see direct evidence in support of it.”

And then the next pint’s on Robbie and James is left smoking and staring at the river, wondering how easy it was, to just be here in this place, twinge of autumn chill in the air hitting his lungs with the smoke. Robbie’s earlier mood had settled into James’s gut, though, reminded him that something was off that had never been addressed. That’s how they worked though, didn’t they? Oh, they talked. They talked about music, and Robbie’s kids and Jack, and when it came to the cases, everything went out on the table, even if it caused conflict. But as soon as something seemed off about one of them, no more than the most polite inquiries were made, and easily dismissed. 

Actually, James reflected, James did the dismissing. Robbie pushed. Not brutally, but with gentle insistence, wearing James down with an optimistic persistence that if he continued, James would bend. Which he usually did, somewhat.

Lewis returned with their pints, fitting James’s in the water ring left behind by its predecessor. James smoked.

“Shut it off,” he heard Robbie say. “Or talk about it.”

“Hm?”

“Whatever’s you got going through that head of yours.”

James’s brow furrowed. Or apparently Robbie may choose to take the direct route. He stubbed out his cigarette. “Actually, I was brooding upon Blake.” He waited a moment for Lewis to protest, but he only seemed to be waiting James out, so, “Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.”

“And?”

“And… the restrainer or reason usurps its place and governs the unwilling.”

Lewis rested his chin in his hand, elbow on the table. “And what is it you don’t believe you desire enough to be governed by?”

“Asking you what’s bothering you. Or, rather, I was contemplating not asking you what’s bothering you and wondering what was stopping me, which of course, led to Blake.”

“As you do.”

“As, yes.” James restrained his desire for another cigarette, but also didn’t let himself look into Lewis’s face. He chided himself in the silence that seemed to stretch out from this point unto infinity. This wasn’t some end-all-be-all moment. If Robbie didn’t want to talk about his issues, it didn’t mean anything for the future of them.

“It’s Laura.”

“Is she unwell?” James’s heart thudded. Family lost is not something he was ready to face right now; not when they just got Lizzie back.

“No, she’s fine. Well, she’s still bothered about me coming back to the job. She’s not saying it outright, but she’s also not very good at hiding her frustration whenever I get a case.”

James rested his chin in his hands, stared into his drink and considered the meaning behind what Robbie was saying. “That’s a hard decision to make, then.”

“Why do I have to make the decision?”

James opened and closed his mouth and did finally light another one. “Isn’t that the way it works? Relationships?”

“And how many of those have you been in, exactly?” Robbie’s expression showed he seemed to regret the words as soon as he’s said them.

“Including this one?” James joked, but followed it with a long drag before deciding he didn’t want a smoke after all, putting the end out fully in the ashtray with more than the usual force. He exhaled and stared at the blaze of colors put out by the setting sun. God is in all things, God is in all things, God is in all things, he repeated to himself.

“Sorry. Sorry, lad,” Lewis reached out as if to pat James’s back, but dropped his arm, grabbed his pint, and took a long swallow from it. “I’m not exactly an expert, am I?”

Surprised, James stared at Robbie. Mister Married still to his dead wife and the arbiter of all things family-oriented, in James’s head, at least, uncertain? “Well, if that’s true, then I’m sunk. Who else am I supposed to model myself after if not you?”

At least taking the piss is a safe way to communicate for them, James muses as things right themselves in the banter of early evening. This, he would remind himself, is why he broods upon Blake alone.

 

 

**Seven long years I looked for you**

 

19 January, 2015

 

“Gemma Brighton, twenty-five, resident of Kellogg College doing flexible study reading literature. She apparently arrived two days ago to complete the third of her residence programs and never showed for her tutorial this morning.”

James studied the photograph Maddox had handed him before her victim summary. He nodded at the porter hovering on the sidelines. “She’s the one who discovered the room?”

“Yes, erm, Miss Haverford, noticed Gemma’s door ajar and looked in to find the mess,” Maddox said. “How was the holiday, by the way?”

James spared her a half-smile. “Quiet. Short. You?”

Her smile was bright. “Yeah. Me and Tony went to visit family and lazed around for days. Kind of good to be busy again, to be honest.”

They talked while walking towards the missing woman’s quarters, which had recently been vacated by SOCO techs, who pointed out spots of blood on the wardrobe and headboard. James surveyed the mess around him. Clothes were haphazardly strewn on the floor, spilling out of an open suitcase. 

“Appears she didn’t even get the opportunity to unpack,” he said. He leaned over the desk and switched on the reading lamp on the corner. He flipped through the books piled in the center: Parallel Myths, The Oxford Companion to Fairy Tales, and an English/Norwegian dictionary dominated the pile, along with two fairy tale and folktale collections. He held one up.

“Folklore studies?”

Maddox checked her notes. “According to her tutor, she was studying something she called ‘the historical demographics of tale migration’ and considering a switch to full-time in the humanities.”

“And when she wasn’t here for her residence studies?”

“She worked at a cafe and lived in Abingdon.”

“That’s not very far, but she paid for rooms.” James knelt to inspect the suitcase, checking the sides for zip compartments while Maddox lifted the mattress of the bed.

“Well,” Maddox said, voice muffled, “if I had partial study I guess I’d want to spend time on the campus too. Kind of get the feel for really being here, yeah?” She dropped the mattress, seemingly not finding anything to help them, and pushed stray hairs off her face while she stepped over a pair of jeans crumpled on the floor as if removed and stepped out of as their owner walked out the door.

James stood in the middle of the small room and looked around at the mess. Nothing seemed to be missing, handbag and keys on the floor by the bed, clothes enough for several days’ stay, books, and laptop. The only thing missing was any cash, though they would have to wait for the bank to know how much that may have been. He looked at her ID, a lovely girl, unsmiling. _And I dreamed my lost love came stealthily out of the wood/With her cloud-pale eyelids falling on dream-dimmed eyes._

He shook his head. “Let’s box all this up and get it back to the station. You’ve already talked to her tutor. When are her parents due to arrive?”

“It’s just the father. Mother passed ten years ago. He’ll meet us at the station when his train arrives.”

*****

Two a.m. found James smoking whilst leaning outside his bedroom window. The day had been frustratingly without a proper clue to help in their search. Gemma’s father had arrived, gray-faced and gripping a scarf he seemed to have grabbed to wear but had never thought to actually wrap around his neck. Urgency increased when Mr. Brighton admitted Gemma’s mother had killed herself ten years before after a years-long fight with depression. He had become cagey when asked if Gemma might also share her mother’s mental health issues, stating firmly that his daughter had been pleased with her studies and had exhibited no concerning behaviors in recent weeks. Gemma hadn’t many friends, and calls to all had given similar information. No one knew of any romantic significant other in her life.

Innocent’s statement on the news resulted in the owner of a property near Charlton stating he’d seen someone fitting Gemma’s description on his right-of-way the day before, which led to a fruitless search over twenty acres of woodland. He had finally insisted Maddox return home for some sleep at ten, though he’d remained until the search ended, worried over the dropping temperatures. He sent an email for Maddox to find in the morning with a list he’d quickly compiled of neighboring properties to check out first thing. Because Gemma wasn’t a minor, was without disability, and, as of yet, not believed to be kidnapped, any further search would have to wait for daylight. 

Then there was the mysterious text he’d received from Laura earlier that evening: _I hope you had a RESTFUL holiday. Let’s meet for a cuppa when I return and you can tell me all about it._ He’d dismissed it, given he’d been shin-deep in leaf muck and fighting off frostbite for lack of gloves, and only now was able to decipher the tone. When I return? Robbie hadn’t mentioned Laura taking a trip. Not only that, but, since when did Laura send chatty texts to James? It was only when he re-read the text that he’d noticed another, sent moments after the first that he’d missed: _As I’m sure you’ve heard the news, I know I don’t have to ask you to look after him._

Look after Robbie? While Laura was out of town? James scrolled through his chat history and found no missed messages from Robbie, save brief replies to let James know a message had been received, and the most recent of those occurred over five days before when James had let Robbie know he’d arrived in Ibiza, which was a lie, though that was neither here nor there at this point. James lit another cigarette and considered anything he may have heard that would result in Robbie needing caretaking. He dismissed anything happening to either of Robbie’s kids or his grandson, as James liked to believe he would have received personal communication about that. He considered simply ringing Robbie despite the time, but put his phone down. Gemma Brighton, a seemingly healthy, unremarkable young woman had walked out of her rooms at college and disappeared into thin air. Whatever Robbie needed right now could wait until Robbie let him know what that may be.

*****

Maddox was already at her desk, hanging up the phone, making notes. She looked up when James entered and started talking before he removed his coat, “Sir we’re currently contacting neighboring landowners and the ground search has expanded. I also had a message from one of Gemma’s classmates regarding a letter she just received.”

James exhaled through his nose and blinked. “Right. Good. You meet with the friend and I’ll head out to meet the search team after I meet one more time with her prof.”

She got that pleased expression that sometimes happened when James let her do something on her own. “Right, sir. I’ll meet with her right away.” She stood and started gathering her things.

James felt stuck to his chair. He had a task now, and a plan and that plan involved moving. Preferably for some coffee before liaising with more slushy leaf muck. He stood. But his mind had not been able to rest last night out of curious fear of unknown events. Fears and Fancies thick upon me come. “Lizzie?”

“Sir?”

“Have you…” Still standing, James fiddled with the pens on his desk. When did he collect so many pens? “Have you heard any rumors since your return? Of a… personal nature?”

“Ah,” she said, sitting again. “I assumed you knew and were being discrete.”

He half-smiled at her regard. “Pretend I know nothing.”

She leaned forward and lowered her voice, though they were alone and both doors were closed. “Apparently DI Lewis and Dr. Hobson have called it quits. It’s unofficial and no one knows when it happened, but my friend Janet who works in pathology? She went to the doc’s a week ago to return some chafing dish she used over the holidays, and she said the Inspector was packing boxes into a hire van.”

“By himself?” James fell back in his chair.

“I… don’t know. Janet said things were tense, air thick with it, so she dropped off and left.”

James stared at the wall, attempting to incorporate this new information. Had there been problems? They had seemed all right last James had seen them socially at Christmas Eve dinner. Two unrelated murders had kept he and Robbie working at odd ends of each other for weeks, the last of which had wrapped mere hours before he and Maddox had taken the leave granted for covering Christmas. But he and Robbie had talked, hadn’t they? When was the last time he’d phoned? Lost in thought, it took several moments to realize Lizzie had been trying to get his attention. “Yes, sorry, what?”

She smiled in something that looked like sympathy, which annoyed James, for some reason. “I’m off to meet the classmate then?”

He shook his head. “Right. You go and I’ll just head over to,” he checked his mobile, where Maddox had helpfully already sent the map of where he’s headed, squinted, “Upper Whatsit.”

Maddox laughed. “I’ll ring you later if I’ve got anything.”

“Yeah, you can come help. Weather’s supposed to be lovely.” He watched her leave and stared at his mobile long enough to decide phoning Robbie could wait. He checked his drawer for gloves before readying himself to leave. He narrowly avoided running into Innocent by ducking down a back staircase. He wasn’t ready to be told to drop the case yet for something “more pressing.” There will always be something more pressing.

 

***

Gemma’s tutor received James with some surprise, probably due to the earliness of the hour, but made an extra cup of tea without comment. They sat across from each other at her paper-strewn desk.

“Professor Bakshi, I’d like to get a better idea of what Gemma was studying, and I was wondering if there was a particular reason she was switching to Humanities from Lit?”

“She was becoming broader in her interests concerning folklore history.”

“Any particular history?”

“She had recently become fascinated with a Scandinavian tale called East of the Sun, West of the Moon, and wanted to trace its historical migration from mythology.”

James wracked his memory. “Cupid and Psyche?”

“A police officer who knows his mythology!”

“I… did a bit of reading last night.”

“Well. Gemma’s interest was in approaching the two tales from a psychological perspective. She had recently read Hillman, you see.”

“Ah, the American psychologist who stated that myths are directly related to the personal ego of the individual,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, impressed. 

Yes, he mentally answered her, a police officer who knew his American psychologists. He inwardly rolled his eyes. “Was there anything in Gemma’s manner that would lead you to believe she felt any personal connection to the stories?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, “Unfortunately, flexible study doesn’t offer tutors the chance to get to know their students as well as traditional study. Gemma was bright, but quiet, and until recently hadn’t seemed to know in what direction she was headed as a scholar.”

James placed his cup on the desk and stood. The urgency to head out with the search team tight in his gut. “What changed?”

“Before Michaelmas term, I presented an online course on the history of fairy tales, and her responses were, if I may say, extraordinary. She was vocal and passionate in a way I hadn’t seen from her before.”

“Did she ever say anything to you to give any indication what sparked her interest?”

Dr. Bakshi appeared thoughtful for several moments. James took the time to scan the titles on the shelves next to him. He pulled off a paperback and thumbed through the table of contents. He heard Dr. Bakshi clear her throat and glanced up. “May I borrow this? I promise to return it.”

She held her hand out for the book and opened to a seemingly random page, before reading out loud, “’Fairy tales taught me the lessons of transformation; they schooled me in courage, honor, and endurance.’” She handed the book to James. “Most young women are drawn to folklore for this very reason. The narratives of their own lives have taught them that they are helpless in the face of more powerful forces over which they have no control.”

“Fairy tales offer a different narrative.”

“One of hope, courage, and the triumph of goodness.”

“They teach children that the dragon can be killed,” he said, smiling slightly.

“And that one can be the agent of change in the course of her own life, but first there are tests. There are always tests.” She held up a finger, opened a drawer in her desk, and rifled through it before pulling out what looked to be a paper. She offered it to him. “This is her final paper from her online course, tracing the hypothetical urform of two transformation tales. I was going to return it to her and discuss her options for future study. You may find some insight there.”

James took the paper from her, read the neatly typed words on the title page. He nodded to Gemma’s tutor. “I appreciate it.”

“Also, you had asked, and Gemma’s particular interest was leaning toward the importance of quests in female-driven narratives.”

“Quests?” James pauses, thinking. “Thank you, professor. And I’ll get this back to you soon,” he was barely out of the room before phoning Maddox.

 

***

Maddox brought James his tea while he leaned against the car watching the activity in front of him. The search team had become briefly excited when a sweater had been found, but there had been nothing further. James knew he had maybe another hour before everyone would make noises about packing it in. He sniffed at the cheese sandwich in his hand and placed it on the bonnet, lit a cigarette instead. Maddox sipped from her cup and looked in the direction of the search team, her expression thoughtful.

“What are you thinking?”

She glanced at him, brushed one hand down the front of her anorak. “I can’t help wondering, sir.”

James waited. He wanted her to feel she could speak her mind, as Robbie had done with him. He waited until he was done with his smoke for her to elaborate, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

“James Hillman was a psychologist who expanded on Jung’s theories of archetypal psychology, primarily studying the link between mythology and psychology, calling mythology the ‘psychology of antiquity.’ He believed myths shape a person’s psyche, and that an individual can use the study of myths to know him or herself better.” He waited a beat, then picked up his sandwich and started eating. Maddox stared at him, puzzled expression on her face. James finished his sandwich, brushed off his hands, picked up his tea and drank.

“I’m not sure I understand the connection,” she finally said.

“I’m not saying there is one,” he replied. He smiled into his cup when she threw her hands into the air.

“Why are we here looking for someone who, for all intents and purposes, left voluntarily to take a long walk and who could show up any minute?”

James kicked his shoes through the grass by his feet while he listened to her. She had every right to question him. “I would posit my own question: Why pack, take a train to Oxford, start unpacking, apparently change clothes, write a letter, then walk out the door with nothing more than the clothes on your back and five hundred quid?”

“You read her letter. She was upset about her father’s drinking. She was stressed about her studies.” She huffed out a breath, walked two steps away then back. “Sometimes people do things that don’t make sense.”

James nodded. “I agree.”

Maddox shook her head. “I’m dodging the Chief Super’s calls, which means you are too.”

He resisted the urge to check his phone, sure he was going to hear about it the moment he set foot back at the station. But his choices don’t have to be Lizzie’s choices. “You don’t have to do that.”

She shrugged. “It seemed important to you.”

He glanced sharply at her. Her expression was genuine, if not still puzzled. “I wanted one more day.” He waved his arm toward the field where the search team gathered. 

She leaned against the car next to him and crossed her arms. “I’ve got to head back to the station in half an hour.” She looked sideways at him. “So I’m supposing that will give you at least another hour or two.”

“Three if she’s in meetings,” he offered.

“There’s always hope, sir.”

 

***

James disconnected his call with Maddox. “Fu…uudge!” Suddenly aware of the search team leaders staring at him. He placed his mobile back in his pocket. “Call it off. Time to go home,” was all he said before he stomped over to his car, sat in the passenger seat and took his frustration out on yanking off his wellies, which he then threw on the mat. He lit a cigarette, ignoring the barking orders sent over walkies calling everyone in. He was, of course, the only one upset about this. Gemma wasn’t in these woods, wasn’t in anyone’s woods, wasn’t anywhere, it seemed. And given the content of her letter to her friend and the corroborating statements from other classmates, had voluntarily up and abandoned her studies to go hill-walking. According to Innocent, via Maddox, they were to put the case on hold until new evidence arose that gave the impression of anything but voluntary absence.

It just didn’t seem right, though. James tossed his end to the ground and sat his elbows on his knees, head in hands. Tomorrow there would be a call, new case, burglary, or possibly even suspicious death, and he and Maddox would put all the Gemma Brighton notes in a file and place that file in a box in the corner of the office and no one would ever think of her again.

Except her father, who hasn’t heard from her in three days.

Except James.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. It was looking like he finally had the excuse for which he had been waiting. He went to his favorites list and touched the name at the top.

 

 

**I wore seven pairs of iron shoes**

 

21 January, 2015

 

James stared at his monitor, tapping his fingers on his desk. Lizzie had been keeping to herself all morning, finishing up her interview notes from the previous day, but he detected a slight edge to her silence. He looked at her, hunched over her tablet, her glance moving back and forth from paper to electronic as she checked what she’d typed. He found himself smiling.

“Watching you makes me think of that recent exhibit at the student art center.”

“Was that the one we were supposed to feel all guilty and throw away our smartphones after?”

“You went?”

Lizzie just gave him this look, which turned into a smile. “You seem in a better mood than I expected.”

“Yeah, well. I’m certain to develop an ulcer eventually, all this stuffing away of my feelings.” He looked at his hands, nonplussed at his sudden honesty. But it was taken in the sarcastic vein in which it was meant, because he heard a short laugh from across the small room. He glanced at his desk. Nothing pressing there, so, “I’m going to get a coffee. Can I bring you one?”

When she shook her head, back into her work, he grabbed his overcoat and headed out. Not three steps before he heard, “Hathaway, a word, please.” Innocent. James closed his eyes and bit his lips before answering, “Right away, ma’am,” and changed direction for her office.

Innocent was leaning against her desk gazing at him speculatively when James entered. He stood at rest and raised his eyebrows.

“I understand your missing person’s search has hit a dead end.”

“As Sergeant Maddox informed you yesterday, yes, ma’am.”

“Then you and Maddox are to be assigned to assist Peterson with a series of armed robberies occurring—”

“Assist?”

“I’m sorry, am I not the one who assigns staff, Inspector?”

“Of course you are, it’s just—”

“Hathaway, tourists visiting our fine city are being robbed at gunpoint, some of whom have been assaulted and left terrified. I want this stopped as soon as possible, and that means my best on the front lines.” Innocent’s voice had gotten to its firmest clip and James found he had the most interesting shoes.

“I’ll liaise with Peterson right away, ma’am.”

He heard her sigh and the soft creak of her desk chair. “James. I know you don’t like leaving your case.” Her voice softer now. Sympathetic.

He looked up. “It just doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t… fit.”

“And you have my full support to keep enquiries open until that girl is found. But I can’t just sit back and hope crime in Oxford with resolve itself while you wade knee-deep in one of your puzzles.”

“Gemma Brighton.”

“Pardon?”

“’That girl’ is named Gemma Brighton.” Innocent tilted her head in that way that let him know he was half a foot beyond toeing over the line, so he pushed the rest out in a rush, “However, you are correct, and I should get with Peterson on those robbery-assaults right away.”

She stared hard at him for a moment, then nodded, releasing him. James walked quickly and hard, and he was outside the station pacing before he was able to calm himself. He sat heavily on a bench and pulled his coat around himself, stared at the feet of people passing by, relishing in the cold air burning his lungs. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there before felt the welcoming weight and warmth of someone sitting next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder. He smiled.

“Lizzie said to tell you to bring your mobile next time you run away. She’s been fielding calls from Peterson, apparently.”

James instinctively slapped the pocket that usually holds his mobile. “Fuck.” He looked over his shoulder towards the station.

“Ah, leave it. Let her cover for you for a bit. It’s what good Sergeants do.”

“And here I thought ‘what good Sergeants do’ is stay late to complete reports so their bosses could enjoy their evenings.” James briefly let himself enjoy the pressure of Robbie’s knee against his own.

“Multi-talented, good Sergeants.”

James looked at Robbie and down at his own hands, just noticing the unsmoked cigarette between his cold fingers. He was still smiling. He put the cigarette back in its pack. “I was just going for a coffee.”

“Want some company?”

Without needing an answer, they both stood and started walking.

***

Later the next evening, James is trying not to dislodge his contacts as he rubbed his eyes. Robbie was reading over the file James had brought him. “This everything?”

“Aside from her clothes and other belongings, which I was told to return to her father.” At Robbie’s expression, he protested, “I know it’s not much but… could you just look it over for me? See if there’s something I’m missing?” Robbie still looked doubtful. “Or tell me to drop it.” James shrugged.

“I’m not sayin’ that. I’ll see what I see.” He turned a page. Another. James tried not to watch him too closely.

“Her father didn’t notice anything missing?” 

James shook his head. “Which makes no sense for someone planning on doing a runner.”

Robbie still didn’t look convinced either way, though. He closed the folder, folded it in half and put it in his coat pocket, and must have noticed something on James’s face, because he said, “It’s good, James. I’ll look into it.”

James rubbed his nose and looked away. “Why aren’t you helping? With Peterson’s case, I mean,” he said, suddenly needing a change of subject.

“Ah. I, ah, asked Innocent for some time to sort things out.” 

James tilted his head to peer at Robbie. He didn’t look half bad. Tired, perhaps, but clear-eyed and untroubled, which perhaps gave him the courage to ask. “Is this a thing we’re not going to talk about and then you eventually drop a clue that gives me some indication as to what happened with you and Laura?”

Robbie huffed out a surprised laugh and picked up his pint, but only looked down, brow furrowed as if it wasn’t what he truly wanted after all. James quashed his urge to fill the silence with words, even to offer to buy Robbie something else, if that would encourage him to talk. He knew if he walked away from the table right now, the subject would be dropped, referred to in oblique statements, frustrating to the extreme. Robbie had stated explicitly that he and James were not even close to being done talking. Not for a long time, he’d said. So this is a thing they do, right? James, so lost in his own thoughts about he and Robbie’s personal comfort with self-disclosure, barely registered when Robbie did start.

“Laura was offered a fellowship to work in Berlin last year.”

James, surprised at this unknown news, remained silent.

“She turned it down before even telling me about it.”

“Because of your relationship.”

“Among other reasons.” At this, Robbie did drink, and James noticed that neither of them had looked directly at the other during this exchange.

“That’s not… unusual, or so I hear.”

“Thing is, we’re both set in our ways.” At James’s snort, Robbie finally did meet his eyes. “Oh, go on,” he said, smiling a little, inspiring James to offer a small smile in return, though he wasn’t sure why they were smiling. 

James wrapped his hands around his own glass to keep from fiddling with his cigarette pack. “You two seemed to be doing all right,” he offered.

“Maybe if I’d stayed retired, she would have talked about it with me, we could have talked about going to Berlin together. But instead she made a decision because I came back to the job and…”

“And she resented you for that.”

Robbie nodded, looked across the river at the trees. “We finally had a proper sit down over it and talked it out after Christmas. We’d been sniping at each other for weeks since I found out what she’d done, but not having a real row about it. Truth is, we were avoiding fighting because we each had something important to say.” Robbie shook his head and he fell silent.

“Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret,” James said, then amended with, “Ambrose Bierce,” at Robbie’s curious look.

Robbie rubbed his hand over his forehead and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder…” He didn’t elaborate further, and James felt the wall come up, the one that kept him from pushing for more. That Robbie had shared this much was a gift, not spoken in asides or retorts, but with the truest amount of honesty that he could at the moment.

James decided it was enough. He allowed the silence to stretch long enough to become comfortable. Smoked a cigarette. Refrained from quoting Shakespeare. Eventually, Robbie will grab a third round, making the decision as to who was driving (neither) for both of them.

Yet. Robbie stood and said, “Think I’m going to head home. Still unpacking in the new flat.”

“Oh. Need some help?” James started to stand.

Robbie waved his hand. “It’s fine.” He patted James’s shoulder, hand lingering for a second before patting one more time. “I’ll be in touch about your missing person case, yeah?” 

At James’s nod, Robbie walked away. James glared at the ashtray in front of him, not certain why he was suddenly so angry.

***

James didn’t know what to do with himself. He picked up his guitar, strummed a few chords, put it down only to pace around his flat. The drink he’d poured after removing his jacket and tie was sitting on the table in front of his reading chair, so he sat and downed it in one gulp, wiping his mouth reflexively with the heel of his palm. The book borrowed from Professor Bakshi balanced on the arm of the chair, a torn piece of paper poking out from the point at which he’d stopped reading the night before. He opened it at random, though, and read the entry by Joyce Carol Oates.

After another glass of whiskey and three readings of Gemma’s paper, James can’t shake the controvertible belief that something very terrible had happened to Gemma, but also that she had left voluntarily. He paced the length of his sitting room and considered what this belief would actually get him. Nothing. Without confirmation from Gemma (impossible to get at the moment) or her father (probably impossible to get ever), James had nothing but an uncanny feeling of incompleteness. He was half-way out the door before he remembered that Robbie didn’t want company tonight. Robbie’d buggered right when James had thought things were good. No, they hadn’t been good. Robbie was talking, about something important, and James had to go and get clever on him, make some pithy quote and ruin everything. Quoting Ambrose Bierce when Robbie was talking about his relationship ending, that thought alone exemplified for James everything that was wrong with him.

James lit a cigarette and leaned back against his half-open door, pulled out his phone. 

Robbie answered after four rings. “James?”

“I’m sorry,” James said on exhale.

“What’re you—”

“I’m sorry I ruined our night and didn’t just let you talk about Laura.”

“You didn’t. It’s fine,” Robbie’s voice had that gravelly quality it got when he was only slightly annoyed with James’s mood.

“No. It’s not. I waited to call you until I needed your help because I didn’t know how to call you and just ask after you,” James could hear his own voice breaking. Cleared his throat. “I could’ve helped you move, you know.”

A sigh. “You were in Ibiza.”

“I wasn’t. I didn’t even leave Oxford, and it’s stupid now, the reasons.”

“That you lied to me?”

“That too,” James conceded.

Silence stretched out. James crushed his cigarette against the wall and put it in his pocket. Went inside and closed his door. 

Another sigh. “Why do you always try to be such a bloody mystery, lad?”

James, leaning on his forehead against the inside of his door, shook his head.

“James?”

“It’s not purposeful. I promise.” Except when it was, of course.

“You sound like you need to sleep. I know I do.”

“Yeah. Peterson’s planning a sting tomorrow.”

“A sting? Has he been watching American telly?”

“I think it was actually the movie, The Sting, but I can’t be sure.”

A short laugh, and James could suddenly breathe again.

“Come by mine tomorrow evening. I’ll cook.”

“Oh god.”

“Enough out of you. I make a brilliant baked chicken, I’ll have you know.”

Now James huffed out his own brief laugh. He rubbed his eye. Nodded. Said, “Yes,” because Robbie couldn’t see him, no matter how well he may know him. They rang off with nothing truly settled about what had happened. But James was able to shower and clean his teeth and lie in his bed in the knowledge that, no matter how much he may mess things up, they were only as messed up as Robbie Lewis let them be.

 

 

**I ate seven loaves of iron bread**

 

16 June, 2013

The sun scorched his calves, arms, the top of his head whenever he removed his hat hoping for some relief from the trapped heat. No matter how much sunscreen he applied or how many times he allowed his precious stores of water be wasted on dampening his head, he could feel the heat creeping into his bones, taking up residence in his marrow. Around him stretched crops of wheat and dirt and endless, uncompromising blue sky. There were no trees, nothing to provide shelter, save the occasional concrete bunker that only seemed to operate as an oven under unrelenting sunshine and heat that made his lungs ache. 

Any efforts to distract himself— reciting the entirety of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in an obnoxiously sing-song voice, reciting the entirety of the Liturgy of the Eucharist in Latin until he found himself yelling “Ite, missa est!” until his voice broke— failed. He had failed. He stopped, unbuckling his pack and throwing it on the ground so he could sit on it. He needed a moment, or fifty, to think. He just needed to bloody think without being so bloody hot and bloody thirsty in this bloody wasteland of dirt and empty, cloudless sky. This was his missa, his last chance to figure it all out, and he was failing by focusing on all the wrong things, his discomfort and boredom, rather than putting his intention behind each step. He stretched out on top of his pack and shut his eyes. 

He’d prepared for this, had read about other travelers’ experiences, and yet all the knowledge he’d acquired had been pointless. You’re such a canny lad, he thought to himself, clever your way out of this one. Lad. That’s what Lewis called him. 

Don’t think about Lewis. Think about the mission. Think about intention. His failed intention during his one chance-- 

“Go on, lad. Who says you only get one chance?” 

And now he obviously has gotten heatstroke. James sat up and felt his pulse, drank some water. The echo of what he’d heard Lewis say stayed with him. Well. If he were going to die out here, he may as well have one last conversation with the man.

“Don’t I, though?” 

“I think you know better than that. How many cases we’ve worked that looked one way and turned out another? Did we go whinging into our pints about how we failed?”

“Well, honestly, sir, sometimes yes, we—”

“Not when it really mattered. We knew when to let it go when it mattered. You’re not failing anything as long as you keep going. And it’s Robbie.”

It’s Robbie. James inhaled, dust and heat searing his sinuses, but caring little now. He took another drink of water and stood, shouldering his pack and ignoring the blisters that had formed on his hips and buttocks from its constant rubbing. Pack secured, he peered down the road ahead and exhaled noisily. He lifted one foot. Put it down. “Robbie,” he said to himself as he took another step. “Robbie,” he repeated with another. “Robbie Robbie Robbie” he repeated through the remaining 10 kilometers he’d promised himself he would travel that day. If pilgrims were indeed people who loved a good riddle, then James decided he was in a riddling mood that day. Despite his intentions when he had begun this trek, it seemed it would have to be Robbie Lewis who would carry him to his rest that day.

 

 

**I climbed seven iron mountains**

 

23 January, 2015

“So, in the end these particular types of fairy tales are all about having to atone for breaking some prohibition. And not just any one, but one given in trust. Add to that, Gemma was most interested in studying the historical context of needing to take on a quest with impossible tasks, which, I think she… may— what?”

Robbie, smiling, answered, “Nothing. It just sounds like you’re describing yourself, in a way.”

James looked down at his plate, shrugged, and took another bite of chicken, which had gone cold during his monologue. He glanced up to see Robbie still watching him. “I told you, I just took a long walk.”

Robbie answered with a noncommittal grunt and seemed to busy himself with finishing off his dinner. James sniffed and rested his chin in his hand. He was chewing on the skin of his thumb before he even realized, and made himself stop when he saw Robbie watching him again. 

“I went to spend a few days at St. Gerard’s,” he said. “When I told you I was in Ibiza.”

“Not much of a holiday.”

“It was nice. Quiet.”

Robbie raised his eyebrows and glanced at James’s plate. James took the last two bites of roasted potato and stood with Robbie to clear the table.

“Only, you felt you had to tell everyone you were traveling. So, are you considering another change?”

“What?” James dropped the plates in the sink.

“Of career. Being an Inspector isn’t what you thought it would be?”

“No. No.” James shook his head to emphasize how very— “No.” He finished rinsing the dishes, turned and leaned against the counter to face Robbie, who was wrapping up the remainder of the food. “I was looking for some perspective. Something completely outside my normal everyday, and Professor Pinnock allowed me to come spend some time there and— ” At this he threw up his hands, at a loss to describe what he’d been offered and received. “Talk, I guess.”

Robbie’s expression was steady and open, not angry or suspicious, but something about it still made James feel he needed something to do with his hands. He returned to the sink and looked around for washing-up liquid and a sponge.

“That’s good, James,” Robbie said, right next to him. “It’s good you had someplace to go, someone to talk to.”

James swallowed, looked to his right, and there was Robbie, calmly presenting him with a yellow sponge. James took it and rubbed his thumb along the edge, grounding himself on the texture. “Everything moved very fast after I returned.”

“Innocent was eager to get you back on the team.”

“And I was eager to get started, but then—” James stopped, uncertain how to continue when he didn’t know the ending of that statement himself, didn’t know how to begin to describe the enormous pressure he’d put on himself in his new position, how he had felt the effect of alienating everyone around him like an ill-fitting suit. How, even in recognizing this as it had been happening, he hadn’t been able to stop until Robbie’d come out of retirement.

Luckily, he remembered he was supposed to be washing up, turned on the hot water to fill his pause with noise, remembered he still hadn’t found any soap, and started searching cupboards. Robbie stayed silent, meanwhile, and James wished he could figure out why. Instead he started fussing over Robbie’s lack of proper kitchen supplies. “Right,” he said, “definitely know what I’m getting you for a housewarming. You need pretty much everything, as far as I can tell. Are you sure you actually cooked?” He was caught by the smile on Robbie’s face, watching him. Robbie was pleased about something and James was the cause and not much else mattered right now.

“It’s good to have you here,” Robbie said, still smiling.

***

James smoked. He tried not thinking about Gemma Brighton, but that simply led to thinking about his evening with Robbie. It had been comfortable, though he couldn’t put his finger on why that should surprise him. He could only suppose it had been the level of comfort, given all the unspoken words crowding around his head, sitting on his chest. He tried to release them with each exhale. 

Angela, who with her partner Joyce made the pilgrimage to Santiago yearly, had spent an hour with James on the road to San Juan de Ortega teaching him the value of “breathing appropriately,” as she’d termed it. An hour of watching him exhale, and saying in her clipped German accent, “No, you’re not exhaling enough, James. Exhale as if your life depended on it!” Which usually resulted in him exhaling into a laugh that turned into a cough, considering all the times his life had never actually depended on his ability to exhale fully.

He’d told no one what his (former, probably still current) profession was. Only that he had been taking a sabbatical and hoping to see some of Spain. No one questioned him, or had made assumptions about him, and that had been refreshing, but had still felt incomplete. It wasn’t until after they had wrapped the Graham Lawrie case that he was able to think about what he had missed during those months communing with strangers. Not that he hadn’t known before that evening, but it hadn’t been something he’d wanted to examine since his return.

Now, though. Now, it was all that was on his mind. The ways he had attempted to keep Robbie at a distance and how badly he’d failed. Every stated obfuscation. Each time James had pushed, and the resulting pull from Robbie. Had James expected a push back? Or for Robbie to pull away so fully that James would no longer have to leave the country (or pretend to) to put Robbie off? But that wasn’t what had happened. Robbie had waited, given James his space, and waited some more. 

James couldn’t shake the feeling that Robbie was still waiting. All night, with the smiling and the gentleness in his manner. Almost as if James were the one recently heartbroken. Though Robbie hadn’t seemed heartbroken. Sad, perhaps, around the edges. A little fuzzy, wanting some company, but not to talk about himself. He’d wanted to talk about James, about how James was doing, about James’s cases. Of course, it could have been mere distraction, but the more James had talked, the gentler Robbie had become, and something about that made James’s head spin a little more than one split bottle of wine should create.

Inhale. Exhale.

***

James waited outside Professor Bakshi’s office while she finished a meeting. He thumbed the book he needed to return. It had been his excuse to leave Maddox in charge of following up with new leads in the robbery/assaults. His dinner with Robbie the previous night had left him resenting having to work with Peterson, though he was at least able to recognize none of that was Peterson’s fault. Helpfully, after putting up with James’s quirks for the past six months, Lizzie has proved to be beyond capable when James needed a buffer between himself and Peterson’s particular charms.

Professor Bakshi opened her door and ushered out two students too involved in their continuing discussion to notice James standing there until one ran into him. James smirked at her blushing apologies and stepped aside.

“I just wanted to return your book,” he said after she’d admitted him.

“Did you receive any insight?” She asked, placing the book on its spot on her shelves.

“For the case? No, not really.” James hunched in on himself in admitting this, then straightened his shoulders on instinct. “It was informative to see a different perspective than what we normally see at the cinema.”

Professor Bakshi seemed to want to reply to this, but only tilted her head and nodded. She sat on the edge of her desk and crossed her arms. “I hate to ask this, but we’re not going to see Gemma again, are we?”

“I don’t really know. I hope so.” He did. For many reasons, he’d realized.

“If only to ask her where she’s been?”

“And also to find out if it helped.”

At this, she stood and approached James with a curious expression. “Helped?”

“This… quest, for lack of a better term.”

“So you believe Gemma is searching for something?” The professor offered James one of the chairs in front of her desk, but James crossed his arms and looked around, suddenly uneasy with what he’s said to her. Wondering what he’s afraid of giving away.

Yet, he answered her as honestly as possible, “I believe Gemma possibly did something she can’t reconcile with whom she wants to be, and so she’s trying to make amends, much in the way of her fairy tale heroines.” 

“Ah. You are suggesting that, like Psyche, Gemma broke some prohibition and quests to atone.”

“It’s purely speculation.” He shrugged and turned away from her to peruse the shelves behind him.

“Well,” Professor Bakshi sighed, “if that is the case, I hope she is receiving help the old tales promise for young travelers.”

James, remembering an old woman and an apple, turned around with a nod and small smile. “I was recently on the Camino de Santiago and found myself frequently surprised by the number of strangers who offered to wash my feet.” He looked down at the feet in question, now blissfully free of oozing, painful blisters, surprised by what felt like this confession of sorts. Robbie had hinted his interest in hearing about James’s travels the previous night, and not for the first time. James had changed the subject, not for the first time.

His mobile rang, and he excused himself with a wave and nod before stepping into the hall.

“Mr. Brighton. Thank you for returning my call.” James stepped around two students quietly arguing semantics in the hallway and walked toward the stairs.

“Of course, Officer. Have you… Is there any news?”

“No, I’m sorry to say we have nothing new but I did have a few questions, if you don’t mind?”

***

 

“I can see why you can’t let this one go,” Robbie said, “but I don’t know that I have anything to offer you except more questions.”

They were back at the pub, but inside to avoid the drizzle, so they were surrounded by noise James found both intrusive and comforting. He waved his hand to indicate Robbie should simply continue. More questions were something, at least.

“First, her father.”

“Gives every impression of being an upstanding citizen, but most likely has issues with alcohol and became evasive when I attempted to find out if Gemma had a similar history to her mother.”

“Exactly, our Lyn goes missing out of the blue, I’m giving up everything I can to help find her or figure out where she’s gone off to.”

James smiled. “Your Lyn has a copper for a father. She would know better than to take off.”

“She’d better, but you know what I’m getting at. And what’s the deal with this letter to her classmate? Has she written anyone else?”

James shook his head. “No history of personal contact with anyone else, except some coursework related emails during some of her online classes.”

Robbie looked as frustrated as James felt. They sat together, each lost in his own thoughts. James noticed Robbie seemed less tired this evening. Perhaps he’ll be ready to return to consulting on cases soon. James wanted to ask him when that may be, but held his tongue. Robbie would return when he felt ready, if ever. After all, he was under contract for only another few months. Suddenly he needed to derail his own thoughts.

“Thank you, Robbie.”

Robbie tilted his head.

“For helping me with this. I know you wanted some time off.”

Robbie waved his hand. “It’s not like I’m out chasing someone down Cowley Road who may or may not have a firearm.” He drank from his glass. Seemed to wait for James to say something, then said, “I’m glad to help. Time off may be overrated.”

“Like retirement?”

Robbie laughed. James loved watching him laugh, and ducked his head to keep from doing so too closely, too acutely. He lacked Robbie’s easy familiarity with touch, but he wanted to reach out. He was acutely aware of Robbie’s hand lying near his own, only a slight shift would bring them into contact. Instead he grabbed his glass and downed the last of his whiskey.

“I was thinking about you earlier,” Robbie said.

James, still wondering what, exactly, he Robbie would do if James took hold of his hand— in the pub, for Christ’s sake— scratched his head. “I’m sorry?”

“I saw the advert about the Ashmolean and their Blake exhibit.” Robbie shrugged, unreadable expression on his face.

James had been not long after it had opened. “Are you interested in going?” Blake didn’t particularly seem like Robbie’s cup of tea, what with the overt religiosity, but art was art, he supposed.

“Are you going to fling quotes at me the whole time?”

Oh. Apparently they were going together. “Only if you’re very, very good.” 

“God help me, then!”

James smiled, in spite of his slight confusion about the direction the evening had taken. Weren’t they supposed to be brainstorming about the case? James had asked if Robbie had an interest in seeing the exhibit, but Robbie turned it into a joint outing. He gripped his glass, heart flipping. Inhale. Exhale. “You know… there’s a special event next Friday evening. There’ll be music and tours, presentations. I have friends performing, so I was going anyway.” That’s not what he wanted to say. “I mean… If you are interested, it… I think it might be fun.” Fun? Well.

Robbie, meanwhile, was nodding, eyebrows raised as if he were indeed interested, if not a bit bemused with James’s fumbling. “Sounds like… fun.”

“Great. It’s a plan.” James was at sea. Was— did he just ask Robbie Lewis on a date? Was that allowed? Wasn’t there a certain amount of time one should wait after a close friend had broken off a relationship to attempt whatever it was James was attempting? Of course, it wasn’t necessarily a date. It didn’t have to be a date. It most likely wasn’t a date. James recovered himself enough to notice Robbie had grabbed their glasses for refills. He put his head down on the table and thudded it gently, then quickly raised it before Robbie could return. 

Calm had returned by the time Robbie did, though the beer mat had seen better days after meeting James’s fidgety hands.

Robbie raised his eyebrows at the damage. “You look like you could use a smoke.”

“Yeah, I’ll be right back,” James said before fleeing.

Outside, the rain had stopped, so James pulled up the collar of his overcoat and leaned against the wall. Robbie Lewis did not just ask him out on a date. This was simply James being confused, as James does whenever matters of the heart and his friend intersected. James had worked very hard to keep them from intersecting for a long time and had been successful, for the most part. But here he was, practically shattered at the idea of engaging in the simplest outing. Not that Blake was simple. That was the mystery and beauty of Blake, when one thought about it. So much more happening under the surface of everything.

Like this, he figured. Because Lewis had asked “Are you?” and James had become defensive and snapped some opaque retort rather than saying, “Yes. No. Either. Neither,” or even, “Really my limited experience belies true knowledge at this point,” or, hell, he could’ve made some joke about public school and been completely obtuse, and it would have been more of an answer than what he’d eventually offered. Love is simple, except when it isn’t. James resumed thudding his head, this time against the wall.

The door opened, and here was Himself, holding their glasses, eyebrows raised at James, who was still standing with his forehead against the wall. James quickly took a final drag and dropped the end, glanced at Robbie, bent down and picked it up. He rolled his eyes.

“All right,” Robbie asked, handing him his glass.

“Most likely.” James said with a laugh. He stared into his glass. Be normal, he told himself. A lost cause, of course. James had never been what others considered normal. Robbie, on the other hand, was the absolute of normalcy. Not some secret bisexual who had decided weeks after his failed relationship with a woman to chat up his former sergeant for laughs. 

“You sure?” Robbie’s concerned face, hiding nothing. He lives in a small country of hope, which is his heart.

James nodded. “Just thinking.”

“You do that enough, don’t you?”

“I don’t believe I know any other way to be.”

“What about when you play your music?”

“Haven’t really had time for that.” James scratched at the back of his neck. “But… yeah. It does help. Did.”

“Ah, James. You’ve got to make time for the things that are important.”

James lit another cigarette. “Yeah, I know.” He started pacing. Finished his drink. Robbie watching him made him more agitated with the sudden need to run somewhere. Like Spain, perhaps. “I had to drop out of the band when I left for Spain, and haven’t had the time to pick it back up since I returned.” He stopped, shoved his free hand in his pocket, avoided Robbie’s eyes, though he couldn’t say why. When he did chance it, his breath caught at the expression on Robbie’s face. He cares about you, he thought, he cares about you and you’re worrying him. So much for acting normal. James smiled to himself.

“What,” Robbie asked.

“Nothing.” James shook his head. “I guess I’d forgotten what it was like having you trying to manage my life for me.”

“Only because you seem to lack basic survival skills!”

James put his hand over his heart. “You wound me, Robbie. You are talking to a man who walked across Spain twice. Got the scars to prove it.”

“Probably didn’t sleep enough then as well,” Robbie groused.

That was true, so James nodded. He picked up his glass, remembered it was empty, and waved it in Robbie’s direction with a raised eyebrow. Robbie followed him inside. The noise and warmth inside momentarily startled James, and he felt a steadying hand on his lower back, urging him forward. 

***

James took the call while waiting at the table for Maddox to return with her lunch. They had spent the morning reviewing all unsolved assaults going back a year, and discovered possible links between the current cases and some reports dating to 2013. When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he’d figured it was Peterson with one of his frequent unnecessary updates.

It wasn’t.

When Maddox finally got his attention, he realized he’d been picking at his food without seeing it. He blinked, her worried face coming into focus.

“That was Abingdon constabulary,” he finally said. “Gemma Brighton’s father committed suicide last night.”

 

 

**Until I reached this shore**

 

28 January 2015

Laura opened the door and smiled. “Thanks for coming over, James.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” James answered, ducking through the door into Laura’s house. He looked around, but it didn’t seem much different than the last time he’d been over— while Robbie had still lived here— just over a month before. It was hard to reconcile the knowledge that they had been having problems at the time with James’s memories of the evening. Perhaps he had been too wrapped up in the case he’d been working on at the time. Some things about himself would likely never change, James thought.

He sat at the table and accepted her offer of a beer. Watching her fuss around in the kitchen, he picked up on an edge in her movements. He crossed his leg at the ankle and tapped the file folder he held against his shoe.

Laura sat across from him and took a long drink from her bottle. She put the bottle on the table and picked at the label for a moment. “I take it you’re not here solely to check in on me.”

“You have been missed at the station,” he said.

She flashed him a brief smile. “Just a short break,” she said. “I’m not wallowing.”

James rubbed his hand on the back of his head. “You look good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised!”

“I’m not—”

“Oh, James. It’s all right. Let’s not be awkward now. Not when we have so much history.” At this, she leaned forward and lightly touched his arm. 

James relaxed and smiled a bit, tiled his head in what he hoped was a conciliatory manner. 

“Besides,” she continued, “As I’m sure you’ve received the relationship post-mortem from Robbie, you know we’re both fine with this.” Her eyebrows furrowed as she looked at him. “Robbie is fine, isn’t he?”

“No, no, he’s good. He’s… well he’s not really a talker, though.”

“Ah. So no real post-mortem from him?”

James recalled the evening, and then remembered how he’d shut down the conversation, and shrugged. “It was a little sketchy on the details. Not that I’m fishing for any,” he finished in a rush. “Truth is, I’m probably not the best person for this conversation.”

“Interesting,” she said, her head tilted, “I’m pretty sure you’re about the only person he could feel comfortable talking to about all this.” 

James’s brow furrowed, thinking. He scratched his head. “Aside from you, of course.”

Laura shook her head. “Robbie and I have done all the talking we need on the subject. We still have to work together, you know.”

“True.” James may not have much practical experience with relationships, but he did know enough to understand that constantly rehashing personal conflict over dead bodies was not on.

“So why don’t you tell me why you are here,” she said, looking significantly at the folder in his hand.

James scratched his eyebrow. “Don’t hate me too much for this, but I need a favor.”

Laura sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. James attempted to appear guileless in the face of her glare. After a bit, she sighed and rolled her eyes and held out her hand. James handed her the folder.

“Give me the rundown.”

“Harold Brighton, fifty-seven, widower. Found dead of apparent carbon monoxide poisoning in the garage at his home.”

Laura paged through the local pathologist’s report. “Any reason to doubt suicide?”

“Not really.” She glanced at him and he held up his hands. “Psychologically, it may fit. His wife suicided ten years ago and his adult daughter recently took off without notice. During our interview I noticed hand tremors and jaundice, classic signs of frequent alcohol abuse.” He tapped his fingers against his knee, rubbed his palms on his trousers. “I may have indicated to him recently that I believed she had run away due to an impropriety in their relationship, the daughter.” He would murder for a cigarette right now.

The file slapped onto the table and Laura’s full focus returned to him. “James, you are not responsible for poor decisions made by others.”

“I’m sure the argument could be made that sometimes I am.”

“Have you talked to Robbie about this?”

“About my issues with self-blame? All the time.” 

She smiled at him, a little sadly perhaps, and reopened the file. 

“Though we are meeting on the weekend,” he added. He didn’t know why he said that. Something about needing her to know Robbie was okay. Or maybe because he hoped she would tell him what the hell had happened. 

Laura, however, seemed oblivious to his subtle hopes. She smiled again, brightly. “Good.” She read for a bit, then nodded to herself. Without lifting her eyes from the page, she said, “I’m rather used to doing this without an audience, you know.”

“But then you wouldn’t have the pleasure of my company.” James took a long drink of his beer. “Why don’t I step out and leave you to it?” He gestured with his cigarette pack. Laura didn’t even look up from the report while she nodded.

James sat at the table in Robbie and Laura’s well-appointed garden. Well, Laura’s now. He considered how easily two people can decide to mesh their lives together, only to end it just as easily. It couldn’t be that simple, he was sure, but here were Robbie and Laura just moving forward with their lives. Was that the cost of letting someone into one’s life? Knowing one day you would be using trite phrases such as ‘moving on’ to describe one’s current circumstances?

When Laura joined him a short time later, she was smiling in that piercing way she had, as if she were trying to read his mind. “You seem more troubled than usual, given what you brought me.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot going on.”

“Is this about the case? Or something else?”

James shrugged. He figured it couldn’t hurt, asking. “What happened? With the two of you? You seemed perfect.”

Laura sat next to him. “Relationships are, for lack of a better term, unpredictable. People may seem to go well together, who don’t actually.” She tilted her head, thinking. “I suppose the opposite could be true as well.”

“But you were supposed to take care of him.”

“Good lord, James. I should hope I have more going for me than to be Robbie’s caretaker.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just—”

She stopped him with a hand to his arm. “I had an epiphany the other day. I remembered a quote I read somewhere about love that just— it fit.” Her brow creased. “It had to do with the difference between strength and courage in love.” She bit her lip, thinking.

“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.” James put out his cigarette. “When did you read Lao Tzu?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “This is Oxford. But I thought of that quote and realized, Robbie and I, we brought our own strengths to our relationship, but we didn’t give each other the courage we needed.”

Courage to do what, James wondered. “Technically, what you had was a revelation, which is the disclosing of something previously hidden or unknown by an object or outside source. If it had been a true epiphany, you would have read the quote before the split and had the realization then that you shouldn’t be together.”

She swatted at him. “What I’m trying to say is that we are in a better place than one could expect, and knowing that helped me. And you said yourself that Robbie’s doing well?”

“He is.” That was the truth of it. Despite whatever James had expected, Robbie hadn’t delivered. He hasn’t seemed morose or unduly upset, has even been in relatively high spirits at times.

Laura narrowed her eyes. “So were you here to pump me for information?”

“What? No. Well, yes. There was a— I have a case.” He smiled at her, missing her teasing.

“Simple suicide. Well, not simple. Carbon monoxide poisoning isn’t pretty, despite what television tries to tell us. But there was nothing to indicate any foul play; no bruising or marks or poisons in his system, other than obvious internal damage caused by years of alcohol abuse, that would lead anyone to believe Mr. Brighton was helped to his death.”

James nodded. “I didn’t know if I was hoping for a different answer or not.”

“You thought the daughter had returned to exact her revenge?”

He laughed slightly. “Something like that.” He looked around the garden once more, wondering if he’ll ever return. He stood. “I should get going.” Checked his pockets, took the last swallow of his beer.

Laura stood with him, her hand resting lightly against his. He stilled, unable to meet her eyes.

“Don’t let him be too alone, James. He gets too used to that, you know.”

James patted her hand awkwardly. “Don’t we all.”

 

***

 

James’s mobile rang while he and Maddox were putting the finishing touches on their paperwork for the Peterson case. Turned out four teenagers from Brighton thought it would be a lark to ‘hit up the richies in Oxford,’ and return home every few days. Peterson’s sting operation finally succeeded after three attempts at trapping the youths, resulting in a fight, a speedy confession, and mountains of typing lasting most of the day.

He checked the screen, smiling when he saw Robbie’s scowling face, at that moment realizing how much he was looking forward to their outing that night. “Robbie! I’m just finishing up and should be by around seven—”

“What’re you doing going to Laura?”

“What?” James glanced at Lizzie, who seemed to be doing her best to ignore him. He swiveled his chair around and lowered his voice. “What’s going on?”

“Why are you asking her about us?”

“I asked for her help with a case.”

“While she’s taking time off?”

“It was unofficial. She— Robbie?”

“If there’s something you want to know about what happened, ask me.”

“Can we talk about this tonight?”

“No. I’m not— I need some time right now.”

“Wait.”

“I’ll phone you later, James.”

And then the line was dead, though James sat for thirty more seconds with it pressed to the side of his head, trying to figure out what had just happened.

 

***

James stood outside Robbie’s flat for a full two minutes before he knocked on the door. There was no answer for another minute, so he knocked again. Robbie’s car was outside, so unless he had gone for a walk to avoid this very thing, James figured he was home. James leaned against the wall opposite and jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from becoming a nuisance to the whole building. His heart thudded when he heard the locks disengage. He hadn’t exactly rehearsed what he was here to say. He stood up straight just before the door opened.

Robbie stood in the doorway, holding the door partway open, but blocking entry, his expression reminding James of every suspicious person with whom he’d attempted interviews. 

James rubbed the corner of his eye. “Can we talk about this?” 

Robbie seemed momentarily distracted by his appearance, and James recalled he hadn’t been home to change after his tussle with a runner from the gang, which had resulted in a torn dirty shirt collar and scrape on his cheekbone. James put a self-conscious hand to his cheek.

“Seems you got your man,” Robbie said, voice mild.

“Yeah, well, more like he got me across the face with his fist, but yeah, eventually. We did.”

Robbie said nothing, but nodded and opened the door wide enough for James to enter. James hunched his shoulders before walking through. He couldn’t say why, but the urge to make himself smaller took over. He closed the door behind himself and followed Robbie, who had walked into the kitchen. 

Robbie handed him a damp flannel and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. 

“Cheers,” James said, wishing he had thought to straighten himself out before this impromptu visit. He held the flannel to his cheek and appreciated its cool relief. He avoided Robbie’s eyes and waited for him to say something.

Robbie said nothing, though. 

Inhale. Exhale. “You’re angry. I’m not sure why, though.” Robbie remained silent. James pulled the flannel from his face, looked at it. The bleeding had stopped several hours before, so James refolded it and draped it over the edge of the sink. The adrenaline that had carried him over here was now absent, and he was suddenly exhausted. Robbie’s silence defeated the last of his resolve. When he looked at Robbie finally, he saw he was being watched. James tilted his head toward the door. 

“I’m sorry I barged in. Thanks for the…” he waved his hand toward the sink and started for the door. His hand was on the handle when Robbie stopped him.

“You’re not the only one who’s allowed to have secrets, you know.”

James remained by the door in case this became ugly and he needed a quick exit. “Laura and I are friends; colleagues. I didn’t think I would need your permission to meet up with her.”

“You don’t,” Robbie said, and James heard the frustration in his voice. 

He spreads his hands open in an universal ‘What, then?’ gesture.

“She phoned. Told me you seemed upset about what had happened with us, encouraging me to talk with you.” Robbie pushed himself off the counter and paced the kitchen. “But I though we had talked about it already, so it didn’t make sense that you were nosing around—”

“I wasn’t ‘nosing around,’ I was inquiring after a friend.” James slapped his hand against the door and turned in a circle, wanting to pull his hair out.

Robbie stopped in the middle of the room. “You just barrel around doing whatever you want. You keep everything locked away inside and keep everyone at arm’s length. You don’t think I might want to know you’re upset? Or, or, where you are when you disappear?”

James rolled back on his heels. When did this become about that? “Is this about Spain or last month?”

“I don’t know! Both! You don’t think about the people who care about you and just do whatever you want.” Robbie took two long steps toward James and stopped, hands on his hips, then raised one hand, pointing at James’s chest. “You lie and lie to me. To me!”

James felt the breath leave his body, remembering the last time Robbie had shouted those words at him. He stared at his shoes. At least he was blocking the door so Robbie would have to get past him to walk away this time. At least no one would be dying this time. He shook his head. He could stand here and think of a hundred ways he hadn’t done a terrible thing, but James had to admit he felt terrible.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for what? Taking off for three months without a word? Or lying about where you are half the time when here in Oxford?”

Hot anger flared in his gut. “That was one time! Because I had something to figure out!”

“So you can have your privacy, but Laura and I can’t?”

James pushed his hands into his hair, wished it were longer so he could pull it. “If you had wanted me to leave it alone, you could have said something.” He could feel blood rushing to his face, and just stopped himself from stomping his foot. Robbie had been talking and James may have ruined it, but he hadn’t seemed angry that James was asking about him and Laura at the time.

“Not that you would listen.” Robbie stood in front of him, hands back on his hips, staring hard. 

No, he most likely wouldn’t have. He would have found ways to pry, as Robbie pried. Maybe at one point, five years ago or more, he would’ve held his tongue. But standing here across from Robbie, James knew he wouldn’t have left well enough alone. He’d made the man’s dental appointment, for Christ’s sake, and had picked him up and driven him to make certain he wouldn’t leave. 

“It may not matter much at this point, as I believe we’re arguing about more than my possible motives at the time, but I truly did visit Laura just to ask for her help with the Gemma Brighton case.”

“What is it about that case, then?”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t you think you’re a little too close to this one? Why can’t you let it go?”

James clenched his jaw. “No.” He reached for the door.

“James.”

He felt Robbie’s hand on his arm and stilled. “Are you angry with me for lying, or being personally intrusive, or something else altogether?” He wanted to turn away, he wanted to run. 

Robbie didn’t let go. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t know.” His hand tightened when James’s arm tensed. 

James couldn’t decide if he was upset about Robbie being angry, or because he was angry with himself, though he didn’t know why. “I explained about St. Gerard’s,” he said, his voice desperate and quiet.

Robbie let go of his arm and sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and walked into his living room. 

James crossed his arms, and waited. He thought about dinner, just over a week before, when Robbie had seemed to want to erase distance between them, literally and figuratively. Compared to that night, there may well be a small country occupying the space now, him a motionless statue by the door, Robbie on his sofa staring ahead at a blank television.

James felt blindsided and rather silly, to be honest. They were supposed to be heading to the Blake exhibit. James was supposed to be boring Robbie with information and quotes he couldn’t ever stop himself from saying. Robbie liked that he was clever, for all the grousing he did, and James enjoyed making him grouse. They were supposed to be arguing over whether to eat Indian or fish and chips. Instead, he was bruised and sore from a dust-up with some bloke half his age, and he and his best… whatever were each acting as if the other weren’t in the room. James felt as if he couldn’t breathe for all the unspoken things floating around the flat. Easy enough to fix.

James opened the door and walked out.

 

 

**When I dream, I am on that road once more**

 

26 June, 2014

James had waited until Robbie had gone inside before he had taken the stone from Robbie’s front stoop. He hadn’t intended to, but had spied it along the path as if it had been waiting for him. They had said some form of good-bye already, having disappeared two bottles of wine whilst James had rambled about his sabbatical possibilities. He hadn’t told Robbie then that he’d decided where he was going. Just as he had chosen not to examine why he was keeping Robbie in the dark.

The stone was brownish-gray and half the size of his palm— round, flat, and smooth, with a vertical seam that he would frequently find himself rubbing with his thumb when standing and surveying the path ahead. It would be his companion, until he reached the Cruz de Ferro, at which point he planned to climb to the base and lay it to rest.

He knew he was supposed to place his burdens into this rock, infusing it with those things that had caused him to walk this journey in the first place. But James had always balked at the expectations of others, another reason he’d told no one about this. Couldn’t he simply wish to see some countryside? Stay in a few simple hostels? Meet fellow travelers?

He took out the rock several times during his trek through the meseta in the hope it would distract him from the misery of broiling heat and sun, but found he had nothing to say at the time. 

It wasn’t until he had reached Rabanal that he had sat on the ground and pulled the stone out of his pocket, thinking about what was ahead. It was warm from its weeks-long travels inside his pocket. He ran his thumb over the smooth underside, flipped it over to trace his finger over the tiny cracks that spread out from the seam that crossed the diameter. The sun was setting, and a cool breeze ruffled his unwashed hair. He heard the sing-song murmur of fellow travelers, at least three different languages, music from a guitar, and laughter. James let the sounds enter him but they did not motivate him to socialize. He stared at the stone, brought it close to his mouth, and started whispering.

***

At the base of the Cruz de Ferro, James waited for a sturdy woman with steel gray hair as she finished what she was there to do. His stone, which had become “his” in the last twelve hours in a way it hadn’t for the previous four weeks, lay heavy in his palm, as if it were newly weighted by what he had placed upon it.

He had thought he would talk about the cases. The children lost. The dubious decisions he’d made in order to do his job. Will and Feardorcha and Scarlet and God. He had at least believed he would have a word or two to say about God. Instead, when he’d started talking, he had talked about Robbie Lewis, about the ways he had allowed himself to change as Lewis’s Sergeant, and the ways he hadn’t even realized he’d changed by simply being, wanting to be, needing to be, a part of Robbie’s life.

Oh, he’d talked about the job, as well, and friends and death and faith and love and poetry, but underneath it all ran the strong undercurrent of Robbie Robbie Robbie. 

The woman, apparently finished with her task, stepped gingerly down the high pile of rocks lain at the base of the cross. When her foot touched the ground near James, she smiled brightly at him, wiped her tearful eyes, and cheered “Vamos!” before marching past him. James was aware of someone standing behind him, awaiting their turn at a respectful distance, so he began his climb.

The cross wasn’t so much a testament of faith as a monument of loss and hope. Stones, pebbles, flowers, signs, plaques, and notes covered the area surrounding the base and were layered upon the the wooden pole supporting the cross itself. _If I had a flower for every time I thought of you..._ Notes were in multiple languages, some of thanks, but many containing messages of loss or pleas for help, most of which he didn’t understand or were too faded to read, but still clear in their tone. James felt an overwhelming urge to bow his head. He breathed shallowly between his teeth to hear something other than the murmurings of those below.

His stone sat in his palm, where he’d held it for the past hour in a tight grip. He knew how it was supposed to work. He would put the stone down, and allow himself to be free of the weight of his overwhelming, inconvenient, and confounding feelings for his friend, thus freeing both of them. Robbie would, unknowingly, be free to live his life with Laura and never confuse James with hope with his gruff, easy acceptance. And James, James would simply be.

He found a good spot, inhaled deeply through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. He placed his hand on the pole, grounding himself on the scratchy feel of the wood, staples (who had carried a stapler on a pilgrimage?), detritus of old totems placed on that spot. 

Stone, ground. Stone, ground, he told himself. His heart pounded as his fist tightened around the stone. He needed to put it down, needed to burst his hot heart’s shell upon the damn rock and just put it down. He waited, but no guiding voice helped him this time.

 

 

**I follow a trail of purpose and will**

 

6 February, 2015

 

Their first murder in over a month had James itching under the collar, looking for Robbie at the sound of every car door. Maddox was pointedly ignoring his snappishness as a result, and started telling him about her mother-in-law’s plans for her visit, until he stalked off, lighting a cigarette, to wait for Laura to tell him she was ready. It was her first day back, and she was in a mood as well.

Robbie didn’t show, and James was relieved. He still had no idea what had happened the previous week. However, he wasn’t ready to push the issue yet, either. James chose not to think about what would happen if Robbie never returned. If he’d decided he couldn’t put up with James any longer and wanted to work things out with Laura and be retired again.

James shook his head. Laura was waving him over. Time to get to work.

She handed him an evidence bag with the victim’s wallet. “Here’s what I have so far. Looks like our old friend, blunt force trauma.”

James nodded and pulled on his gloves before opening the bag.

“James,” she said.

He looked up, eyebrows raised.

“I hope I didn’t put a spanner in the works with you and Robbie?”

He shook his head. “It’s fine.” If he ignored the constant roiling in his gut and a week of crap sleep, that is.

Laura stepped closer, tilting her head to look up at him. “He seemed pretty put out when he heard about us meeting.”

He wanted to ask her— so many questions, such as: What had she said? What, specifically had he been so ‘put out’ about? Most importantly, Why had Robbie and Laura been talking? Instead, he said, “Yeah, we’ve talked and you’re all right. Really. So, anything else you can tell me about Mr. Abernathy here?”

 

***

Leaving the station that evening, James spied Robbie by his car. He stopped, looked around. Robbie, who had been leaning against the door, straightened. His hands were in his pockets, a rare conciliatory gesture. James still approached warily. He stood facing Robbie and waited.

There was a war going on Robbie’s face. James had never seen him look so uncomfortable.

“Guess buying you flowers won’t help here?”

James had no wish to humor him though, and looked at the wall over Robbie’s left shoulder. “I didn’t mean to pry into your private life,” he said.

Robbie tilted his head. “I know. I guess I—” He waved his hand around. “—was mixing my metaphors, or something.”

“You were angry, about a great many things, it seems.” James hated that his voice sounded so petulant.

Robbie seemed to miss James’s tone, or chose not to respond to it. “I’m trying to apologize here. Ah, hell. I’m messing it up.” Robbie scratched his head.

James felt a little of the tension leave his shoulders. “What do you want to know?” At Robbie’s confused expression, he explained, “What secrets—or lies, I think you said—do you want clarified?”

Robbie shook his head. “That’s not what I’m aiming for here. I’m just trying to clear the air.”

“Well it seems the air is still cloudy with something. You tell me not to pry into your life, but you’re angry because I keep things from you.” James stopped took a step away, then back. “I did go to Laura because I was worried about you. I wanted to know if there was something I could do to help.”

Robbie followed him, step for step. “Funny, I remember feeling the same way while you were gone. Then I reminded meself that you were a grown man and you would tell me when you were ready.” 

James turned to find Robbie directly in front of him. He stared into Robbie’s eyes, so intensely blue, and saw none of the suspicion from their last meeting. He took a half-step back. “We worry about each other overmuch, don’t you think, for two grown men?”

Robbie smiled a bit, and stepped away.

James felt something loosen in his chest, like he could breathe fully again.. 

He saw Robbie take a hesitate before he spoke. “How do we fix this?”

Not, ‘Can we fix this?’ so obviously there hadn’t been irreparable damage. As Robbie hadn’t followed up on his offer to share, James felt a lack of urgency about the matter, not to mention considerable relief. He didn’t want to talk about secrets or lies or his inconvenient feelings right now. What he wanted to do, honestly, was solve a murder.

“Can we worry about that later? It’s only, I’ve got this case,” he said. “I’d love some help, if you aren’t too busy?” James tried to keep his words casual, light, but he saw the understanding light in Robbie’s eyes, and knew he was telegraphing something entirely different.

Working together would at least get them talking again, but busy, so they could each avoid personal topics. Until James was ready to talk about them.

“Catch me up over a pint,” Robbie asked, gesturing with his head in the direction of the Black Hart. 

“I knew you couldn’t stay away that long.” James pulled out a cigarette and started walking.

***

Things, it seemed, were not going to improve on their own. Even when standing in the same room with Robbie, James was reminded of that same distance that had invaded Robbie’s flat that night. Robbie would look at him, even talk to him when needed, but he remained remote to James in a way he couldn’t pin down. Lizzie seemed to notice something off as well, and kept quieter than usual as they worked the case. When their top suspect, the victim’s uncle, was found bludgeoned in his home a week after the first victim, their collective frustration filled James’s small office with an oppressive air that only drained when Robbie remembered the first victim’s sister-in-law had originally trained as an engineer, which led them to the cousin with the sledgehammer.

They were all having a celebratory drink at The Victoria, both he and Robbie talking to Lizzie and Tony, but not to each other, when James first wondered how long it would be before the dam burst. Everyone was acting perfectly pleasant. It was a warmer day than it had been, though snow was predicted later. Tony and Lizzie were jokingly bemoaning Tony’s mother’s upcoming visit when James realized he couldn’t remember the last time Robbie had touched him. There had been no casual touches to the shoulder or arm. Or even the occasional hand to James’s lower back, which had been a more recent addition, but a welcome one, when James thought about it. Robbie hadn’t sat next to him, or even stood near James since their discussion in the station car park.

This new awareness soured James’s mood. He quickly drained the last of his pint and stepped outside for a smoke.

Robbie had always touched James, and done so in such a casual manner James thought he’d become accustomed to it, but its recent absence left James bereft, and made him realize he couldn’t become used to something he was always anticipating. He considered the possibility that Robbie was reading something from James or respecting a recent unspoken boundary. But James… James loved it. It was part of how he came to this place, or ended up in Spain for that matter. He loved Robbie’s easy affection and how that seemed to symbolize his inclusion in a rare circle of people whom Robbie trusted.

Except Robbie didn’t trust him anymore. _If you are untrustworthy, people will not trust you._ Lao Tzu again, here to remind James he created this mess. He wondered why he couldn’t recall a helpful quote to help him figure out how to fix it.

The door opened, revealing Lizzie. “Oi! It’s your round! No skipping out!”

He gave her a half-smile. “Wouldn’t think of it.” Inhale. Exhale. Step inside with a grin and easy joke about everyone’s drink choices. Drink the drink with an open expression. Laugh in the appropriate places. Nod. Nod. Nod. All the actions James had used his final weeks at seminary while he had tried to figure out what his next steps were supposed to be. Keep the mask in place so no one will recognize the terror in his heart at knowing what he had already lost.

 

***

The drinking didn’t stop after James returned home. Robbie’s voice in his head, saying ‘I’m still waiting for me postcard!’ and James had avoided even looking at him at the time because he was still swimming in his resentment over Robbie being brought on to help with his first murder case. But Robbie had come back, come out of retirement, because he’d thought James had asked for him. Would James have asked for him, given the chance? He’d assumed Robbie was happy in his retirement, settled with Laura at the house, cooking surprise dinners, and trying his hand at DIY.

Now that he thought those things in that order, James knew he could have asked for Robbie’s help. But he hadn’t wanted to. He’d wanted to prove himself. He’d felt almost betrayed by Robbie showing up, as if Robbie had been saying James couldn’t handle it on his own. James now saw, had seen almost immediately, that Robbie never implied anything of the sort. That, once again, James had been so wrapped up in his own head, he hadn’t seen what was plainly in front of him.

The question was, what was plainly in front of him now?

Think about the important stuff. Robbie was angry because James had lied to him and disappeared without a word. Robbie was worried about James’s attachment to a missing person case that wasn’t. James knew why he’d done the former. So what was it about the latter that made him feel so defensive?

Gemma Brighton had done something she couldn’t live with, but she wasn’t someone who just gave up on life, wasn’t like her mother. She loved fairy tales and had given herself over to reading about them and learning from them. What had she learned? A different narrative from which to view her life. A lesson she could take. The possibility of escape. James still wondered why she believed she’d had to leave so momentously. Why not just take her clothes with her? Was everything a reminder of the prohibition she had broken?

Then again, James had left his guitar when he’d left for Spain. Every time he’d encountered someone with an instrument, his chest would constrict and his fingers would twitch. He’d been so determined to leave any reminder of Robbie, of being a police officer, of Oxford, behind, that he’d cut out anything that may create overlap. It had been thick thinking on his part. While the scenery and excitement of the new surroundings did clear his head at first, he’d soon come to realize he would never be able to fully escape that which he would always want to be in his life.

James drained the dregs of wine left in his glass, head swimming. He was sprawled on his sofa, and thought about going to bed. His phone was in his hand. Why was he holding his phone? Who was he possibly considering ringing at, he squinted at the screen, one-thirty in the morning? He put the phone down and held the wine glass against his chest. He knew exactly who he wanted to call. He had to find a way to explain to Robbie he wasn’t like Gemma Brighton. He had to explain to Robbie the ways he was exactly like Gemma Brighton. Robbie would understand, eventually. He would be puzzled and possibly angry. Well, he was already angry, so no difference there. They may not be friends again the same way after, but Robbie would never just cut him out of his life.

He wished he could find Gemma now and tell her. He wanted to tell her what he'd learned about quests. 

 

**my legs are strong, and you, my dear are the moon on the distant horizon**

 

11 July, 2014

 

On the return, James didn’t even consider veering from the path between Acebo and Foncebadon. His burdens didn’t belong here.

 

 

**I know iron, its weight, its taste**

 

21 February, 2015

James’s alarm woke him at six, reminding him that he’d set it that early because he hadn’t been rowing in a week. He turned it off and contemplated all the reasons he hated life at that moment, his pounding head burning with gleeful glory dominated the top of the list. He blinked heavily while staring at the ceiling, suddenly remembering the morning after his decision to turn around after a night of similar imbibing in Ribadiso. He and his fellow travelers had been celebrating around a fire with several bottles of local wine. He’d met up again with Angela, who had set up the impromptu party outside the refujio. James had felt young again in a way he hadn’t ever, and had known before passing out late that night that he was not joining the steadily increasing crowds of people onward to Santiago.

The next morning had turned into the next full day after, but he had still felt optimistically certain that he had made the right decision, even if it had been made in a drunken swirl of thought. 

He didn’t now have the luxury of taking a full day to contemplate his life decisions. So he went rowing. After taking two paracetamol with about a liter of water.

He was listening to the final strains of Rolf Lislevand Ensemble’s “Tourdion” when he became aware that he was parked outside Robbie’s flat. He turned off the engine and considered his options. It was just shy of eight, so he knew Robbie would be awake. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, suddenly missing his guitar. When had he last played it? A week ago, at least. He leaned his head back and considered this, this heaviness in his chest that had nothing to do with working out whilst hungover or arguing with Robbie. He pulled out his mobile.

Five minutes later he knocked on Robbie’s door. His body remembered the last time he was here, and before he could think about it, he was flooded with anxiety. He wished he’d taken the time to smoke a cigarette, or drink some coffee, or possibly even shower before doing this. The door opened, revealing Robbie in jeans and a jumper. Moment of truth. James’s mouth was dry.

“I phoned Gerald and I’m practicing with the band this week,” he blurted, words rushing out before he could think. “You were right. I needed to start doing that again.”

“Good morning to you as well,” Robbie replied, mouth quirking. He opened the door wider. “I can’t promise the coffee’s fresh, but it’s still hot.”

“Oh, bless you,” James said, and followed him into the kitchen. 

James focused on the cup Robbie handed him, but his attention was distracted while making his coffee because he couldn’t stop his awareness of Robbie standing next to him. He could feel the warmth of Robbie’s body along his arm, could smell his shampoo. James remembered he was in immediate need of a bath, but couldn’t bring himself to move away, because Robbie was near him again.. Robbie was watching him watching his coffee swirl in the cup. His stomach was flipping all over itself and he wasn’t certain the coffee would go down without a fight, but that had nothing to do with the drinking last night. He took an experimental sip. It was ghastly, over-sweetened, but he forced himself to swallow.

Robbie, of course, had noticed. “Didn’t think you usually took that much.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a little off my game.” He allowed himself to look at Robbie, so close to him now. Robbie’s expression changed from amusement to some sort of understanding, and James knew he was broadcasting things he’d long kept hidden. He took another drink from his cup, grimaced. He fought his desperate urge to flee. He was here now. He inhaled. “I stole a stone from your front stoop and carried it across Spain and back.” Exhale. “Also, can I possibly get another cup? This is dreadful.” He dumped the coffee in the sink without waiting for an answer. His hands were shaking.

Robbie, meanwhile, had stepped back, but only, it seemed, to give James room to nervously mess with his coffee again, being extra careful with the sugar this time. James wrapped both his hands around the cup to give them something useful to do, as they seemed to want to reach out to Robbie, to see if they could. 

“A stone?”

“Yes. I was supposed to leave it at the base of an iron cross that was attached to the top of a wooden pole stuck into the top of a pile of rocks and be unburdened.” James laughed at how ridiculous it all sounded. Laughing was release, and helped him decide to put his cup on the counter so he could place his fingertips on Robbie’s face. They barely ghosted the surface, memorizing lines and wrinkles in the brief moments he would be allowed before Robbie stepped away or told him to stop. 

Robbie, however, closed his eyes, then placed a hand on one of James’s. The breath rushed out of James’s lungs as he tried to take in as many details as he could in these moments. Robbie was breathing shallowly, his left hand holding James’s hand to his cheek, his right had grabbed James’s wrist, thumb caressing the tender skin at the base of his palm. James felt electrified by this connection. He leaned forward, heart thudding, and kissed one eyelid, then another. Robbie remained still underneath his gentle kisses— Away with your fictions of flimsy romance!— waiting as James moved his lips across one cheekbone and buried his nose in the hair above Robbie’s ear. He heard his own harsh breathing, focused on Robbie’s thumb stroking the inside of his wrist, Robbie’s other hand on his face now, touching his cheek, thumb stroking his chin, eyebrow, whatever it seemed he could reach. James waited until he wasn’t in danger of hyperventilating before he pressed his lips to Robbie’s. He felt Robbie exhale, felt Robbie’s hand move to the back of his neck, tilted his head and licked into Robbie’s mouth, moaning at the briefest touch of tongue against his. Jesus, he needed— he needed— 

He stepped back, but didn’t let go of Robbie’s hand, now tangled with his own. Robbie’s eyes were open now, and James couldn’t read him, though his investigative skills were a bit compromised at the moment.

“That,” he said, still catching his breath, “wasn’t my intention when I came over.”

Robbie cleared his throat. “I—ah— hadn’t thought so.” He kept hold of James’s hand and leaned away a bit. His expression was steady and James forced himself to continue looking, to not fidget, to—

“Are you really this awkward all the time?”

James stared at his scuffed trainers, pulled on the tattered edge of his faded and torn hoodie. He really should have had a bath before coming over. “Probably.” He scratched his head.

This time it was Robbie who reached out, who stepped forward, into James’s space, hands on James’s cheeks, his hip, tongue in James’s mouth. This time, Robbie moaned, and James, stupefied, possibly a little terrified, leaned in, his thigh moving between Robbie’s, pushing him against the counter. The kiss was sloppy, and James thought he would die from the joy of it. Robbie was pulling him closer and James could feel hardness against his hip, just stopped himself from rutting against Robbie in the kitchen. He broke the kiss again to take a moment, rested his forehead on Robbie’s shoulder, felt Robbie kiss his neck and laughed. Robbie made an inquisitive noise.

“You do realize I’m probably dreaming right now?”

“Are you?”

“Yes. It’s two years ago and I am alone in my bed and dreaming about you letting me kiss you in your kitchen.”

“Hmm. That was a nice kitchen.” 

With that, James was able to lift his head and see Robbie’s concerned expression. “I wasn’t pining, you realize. Just wishing, sometimes. I usually didn’t let myself think about it much.”

“And you couldn’t say anything?”

“I was your Sergeant. You didn’t seem—” he sighed, unable to articulate just how very heterosexual Robbie had seemed for all those years. “I wasn’t pining,” he repeated.

“I hear you. You weren’t pining. I didn’t seem interested.”

“Were you?” James had to move away, needed space for this particular conversation. 

Robbie had other ideas, because he kept hold of James’s hand. “You were my Sergeant.”

James, grounding himself on the connection between them, nodded. “And then you were with Laura. You were happy,” he said, searching Robbie’s face for answers.

“I was. But Laura and me are good as we are. And you—” At this, Robbie leaned into him again and James was helpless because he was dreaming, right? “You are here. With me.”

The kiss was slower this time, sweeter, heartbreaking because James was definitely not dreaming. This was Robbie’s hair under his fingertips and Robbie’s skin under his palm, Robbie’s hand on his lower back, Robbie breathing against his cheek. He felt a sob catching in his throat, tried to stifle it. Robbie kissed his cheek, the corner of his eye. James realized he was being soothed and mumbled, “Perhaps I was pining a little.” Then his stomach growled.

Robbie grinned at him and raised an eyebrow, “Breakfast?” He didn’t wait for an answer, simply patted James’s hip on his way to the refrigerator.

James leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. Robbie was busying himself with eggs and toast. If James squinted, his efforts to keep busy seemed a little nervous. This had certainly been an unexpectedly pleasant turn of events, but there were still some thing James needed to say. 

“The stone represented my burdens,” he said.

“You mentioned that. I was your burden, then?”

“No.” James moved so he was closer and placed two fingers on the part of Robbie’s arm revealed by his pushed up sleeve. “Guilt. Shame. An unrelenting sense of purposelessness in everything I attempt. Those were my burdens. That’s what I was trying to lay down in Spain.”

Robbie turned the cooktop on low and turned to James. He looked like he wanted to say a great many things, but remained silent as he took James’s hand in his and squeezed.

“But when the time came, I couldn’t do it. I stood there, and this cross, Robbie, it was—. Generations of people had passed by that very spot and placed their hopes and dreams and worries at its base. There were letters and a… a plaque from somebody’s service in Afghanistan. Handmade dolls and photographs. It was humbling.” He had Robbie’s full attention now, eggs be damned, and James’s heart flooded with guilt. “I’m sorry I never told you about my trip before. And I’m sorry I didn’t let you know what I had planned.”

Robbie cleared his throat. “Apparently you had a lot on your mind.”

“That was no way to treat a friend. I needed distance— a whole country’s worth— at the time.”

“From me.”

“Yes.” James said, looking again at his shoes. “From you. And the job. And from people hurting each other for inane and stupid reasons.” He was suddenly so tired.

They were no longer holding hands. Robbie turned the burner off before the eggs and bacon burned and started buttering toast. James wanted to put his hands on Robbie’s slumping shoulders. If he did that, they would most likely kiss again. As wonderful as that would be, it would only prolong the inevitable.

“Gemma Brighton is on a quest. I don’t know what she’s searching for, or if she’ll find it, but I understand her motivation.”

Years of experience helped Robbie roll with the change of subject. He spooned eggs over the slices of bacon on two plates, added two pieces of buttered toast to each. “Because you had to do the same thing?”

James nodded. “I don’t know what exactly happened to her, though I suspect. But I knew exactly what I had done.” He followed Robbie to the small table by the window and sat. Robbie pulled forks from the drawer and sat next to him. James focused on Robbie’s knee resting against his own. He shifted his leg so it could feel more of Robbie’s.

“What exactly do you think you’d done, James?”

James shook his head. He didn’t even know the answer to that one anymore. New experiences changed his understanding of the past. All he knew anymore was that he had been happy to leave and happier to return. He knew, though, that this wasn’t what Robbie wanted to hear. He ate automatically, because he had been hungry, and because Robbie had fixed it for him.

“Okay. Will you tell me why you didn’t leave the stone by the cross?”

James put his fork down. “Because I had taken it from you. Because every time I looked at it, it reminded me of you, I would think about you, and it, weirdly, became a talisman of sorts. It became something sacred—” He stopped before he could become maudlin. He scratched his ear; smiled sardonically at Robbie. “So, as I had figured out exactly nil, I decided to turn around and walk back.”

“Didn’t want to pray over the relics of St. James?”

“I had known I wouldn’t find any answers there.” He scooted closer to Robbie’s side. “I had to come home for those.” He pressed his leg against Robbie’s. “Though apparently, I wasn’t completely ready to face everything waiting for me back here.”

Robbie put down his fork and rested his palm on James’s arm. He squeezed once before leaning back in his seat. “Where is it now? The stone.”

“Oh! My bedside table.” Robbie was staring at him, but he ignored it and started eating again. Took a sip of the juice that had magically appeared in front of him. Swallowed hard. “You don’t trust me anymore.” He looked down. He was twisting the serviette in his lap. His hands stilled when Robbie’s hand closed over them. Robbie’s face was soft, open.

“I do. I had a lot going on in me head with Laura. And you were being so bloody stubborn! It hurt, the way you shut me out.”

James nodded and picked up Robbie’s hand to kiss his fingertips. Apologizing at that moment felt trite, rehearsed. He didn’t honestly believe it would help at this point. So he sat quietly for a moment with Robbie’s fingers resting lightly against his lips. He bit the pad of one finger, licked at it. He had a powerful urge to kiss Robbie again, but wondered if maybe they should talk about what was happening between them.

James licked again at Robbie’s index finger, sucking lightly at the tip. He heard a sharp intake of breath just before he felt Robbie’s mouth on his neck, teeth nipping, and James turned his head to meet his lips. James’s hands moved to Robbie’s face. They stood together, still kissing. James slipped his hand under Robbie’s jumper, tracing lightly along Robbie’s side to his chest. Robbie groaned and pulled on James’s sweatshirt. At first, James thought Robbie wanted it off, but then he realized Robbie was pulling him. They had to disengage briefly to navigate the chairs, and James laughed helplessly when he stumbled into Robbie. Robbie’s eyes were shining. He pulled James in for a fierce kiss before turning to pull him towards a room off the short landing.

James hesitated when they reached the bedroom. Robbie stopped tugging on James’s shirt and spread his hand over Jame’s stomach, watching him. James pulled off his shirt and vest.

“I really should’ve had a bath,” he said, his stomach sucking in on reflex when Robbie’s hand repeated its earlier gesture, this time on bare skin.

“I don’t care,” Robbie said, kissing his lips. He spread his hand across James’s side and kissed his jaw. His lips brushed against James’s collar bone, bit lightly. He laughed suddenly, surprisingly. “I think I like it.”

James could do nothing more at that moment than kiss him, and try to pull off his damn jumper. The two, of course, couldn’t happen at the same time. Robbie helped, then froze for a second afterward. James ran a reverent hand down his chest. Kissed him hard. Robbie responded immediately, seeming to forget whatever had given him pause. 

James wanted. He and Robbie shed the rest of their clothes and backed onto the bed. Hands and teeth and knees knocking together in their desperate need to keep touching each other. James wanted. He slid his hand down Robbie’s hip, felt Robbie’s knee push between his own. Robbie’s mouth was on his mouth, on his shoulder, in the crook of his elbow, sucking lightly. James felt. It was thrilling, touching Robbie, making him make those noises and breathe harshly against his lips. It was sloppy and beautiful and James thought his hot heart’s shell was ready to burst with incandescence. Then Robbie’s hand wrapped around him and he stopped thinking altogether.

 

***

 

“Are we actually sleeping?” James lifted his heavy head from Robbie’s shoulder, dimly aware he had been awakened by a quiet snuffling from the head next to his. He twisted around and rested his ear against Robbie’s side. The snores were muffled now, and James could hear his heartbeat and the sound of him breathing.

“What’re you doing?” Robbie’s gruff sleepy voice reminded James of every time he’d had to ring him in the middle of the night. 

James smiled. “We’re sleeping.”

“Bloody stereotype, we are.”

James thought about that. “You maybe, but I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Robbie’s heavy hand patted James’s shoulder and made a half-hearted attempt to pull him up. James resettled himself against Robbie’s side, head on his shoulder.

“Neither did I.”

Of course he hadn’t. Their distance hadn’t only affected James. He wrapped his arm around Robbie’s chest. Robbie’s hand rested against his back. James didn’t want to move. He yawned. “I don’t have anything planned for the rest of the day,” he mumbled.

But Robbie was already asleep.

 

***

 

When James woke again, he was sprawled on his back and alone in the bed. His muscles felt like lead, and Robbie’s dark curtains prevented him from guessing the time, so he rolled on the bed until he could locate his pants on the floor. He pulled them on, then forced himself to sit up and take some deep breaths to clear his head. He pulled the rest of his clothes on and checked his phone. It was just after noon, though his body was trying its best to convince him it was at least six in the evening. He stepped into the toilet to relieve himself and splash some water on his face. He looked in the mirror. His cheeks and chin were red from stubble burn, and he couldn’t quite stop the heat flooding his face and neck when he remembered why.

Robbie was on the sofa, reading the paper. James smelled a fresh pot of coffee. He went to get what would turn out to be the first cup he would drink that day and sat beside Robbie with it. He watched Robbie read for a bit. He wanted to kiss him, but something kept him from doing that.

“You know it’s amazing, the news one can get on one’s smartphone.”

“Can one?”

He took a blessed sip from his cup. “Hmm. Can even increase the size of the type.”

He heard the newspaper rattle, and looked over his shoulder to see Robbie staring at him over a folded page. “My eyesight is perfect, I’ll have you know.” He opened the page again. “I recently had an eye exam, remember.”

James snorted. He drank his coffee. He realized Robbie was watching him after it had been too silent for too long.

“My neighbor told me the hardest part of his pilgrimage was this big area of flatland with lots of farms.”

“The meseta. God yes, it was torture.” He put his cup down and leaned back, stared at the ceiling. “I wanted to kick that fucking wheat.” He sat up, thinking. “Though, it didn’t seem so bad on the return journey.”

Robbie had put the paper down. “Maybe because you were coming home.”

James shrugged.

“Did you— what did you think about? Out there alone with all that wheat.”

James remembered the draining, soul-sapping heat, and the certainty he wouldn’t survive that leg despite numerous reports of thousands of people throughout history who had done exactly that. “Not much. Well, you, actually.”

“So you associate me with the most miserable part of your walk?”

James laughed. “Yes.” He turned then, so that he could see Robbie’s expression. “You saved me, again.”

“Saved you?” Robbie wasn’t catching the humor. In fact, he seemed put out. 

James finished his coffee, wondered if it were too early for a drink. Perhaps he’d said too much, or said it wrong. Usually, Robbie understood whatever it was James wasn’t saying underneath all the words he used. He rubbed his face. Wondered if he should return to his flat, maybe take a shower, tune his baby and practice some of the pieces Gerald had said he would email. 

Leaving would be so easy.

Instead, he leaned back on the sofa and turned so he was facing Robbie. Waited. 

Robbie seemed to be gathering his thoughts. He inhaled once, deeply, before he spoke. “It wasn’t just that I was worried about you, you know. I didn’t even know what you were doing. But I meant what I’d said. You are a grown man and I had to sit with that, that I had no idea where you were or what you were doing for months.” He finally met James’s eyes. “Months, James. It didn’t even occur to you to send one message?”

“It occurred to me all the time! That was the point of doing this. I needed to… to exist in this world for any length of time and not have that entire world be about you.”

“You always had your own thing going on, though. Your music? Service holidays?” 

Robbie seemed genuinely perplexed, as if he hadn’t noticed how James’s world had narrowed to incorporate Robbie into the music (asking Robbie to listen to the newest tracks), and the one service trip he had taken, during which he stopped what he was doing to help Robbie with a case (after which he’d returned to find he’d lost a significant piece of Robbie, one he’d known would never be his, but had caused a deep sense of loss all the same). Then again, Robbie had always encouraged James to follow his own interests, no matter how crudely entwined their lives had been.

“So you’re saying if I had just sent you a damn postcard, you wouldn’t be angry with me right now?”

“It may have helped!”

They’re louder now. Why are they shouting? James feels small and petty under Robbie’s continued hurt and anger, ready to shrink into himself and make it all go away. Instead, he did the one thing Robbie had been asking for since their first meeting after his return. He chose a random memory from Spain, and started talking.

“It only takes a few days to cross the meseta, but those felt the longest. I was certain I was going mad with the heat and thirst and endless field upon endless field of wheat, the only thing— ” At this he put his elbows on his knees and his head in hands, his voice so low he could feel Robbie shift to hear him. “— the only thing that kept me from lying down in some random field and letting whatever happen, happen, was your voice.” Robbie’s hand was between his shoulder blades, resting there in a way he had imagined so many times. It was real now, centering him, reminding him where he was, helping him notice the scent of coffee in the air, his lingering sweat, Robbie’s aftershave.

He continued because as long as Robbie kept his hand right there, he could. “The original plan was, when I got to Santiago, I was supposed to know. I would know and those last few kilometers would be a celebration, and I would go to the Cathedral and go through the motions and receive my fancy certificate and rest at a real hotel because I would know exactly what to do next.”

“But you didn’t know.” Robbie’s hand smoothed up and down his back, each pass grounding James more. Robbie’s hand, he told himself, not a sun-addled dream. “Because you were hearing me voice in your head?”

“No… yes. Probably.” James leaned against the sofa back and allowed his head to fall, stared at the ceiling. “I think I had set myself up, you know? Figure out your life, James. Know what’s next, James. Don’t walk away from a career without some ideas, James. But each time I thought that to myself, your voice would pop in, saying, ‘You’re being too hard on yourself, lad.’ Like some bloody benediction I couldn’t escape.” He lolled his head over to look at Robbie, whose hand had settled at his lower back under his shirt. It rubbed in small circles against his skin. 

“So when nothing seemed settled, you… turned around?”

James nodded. “Figured, at least the imaginary company was worth the trauma.”

Robbie laughed and removed his hand long enough to settle in next to James, shoulder to shoulder. James looked back up to the ceiling. Robbie inhaled several times before James heard him speak. “I’m glad I was out there with you in some manner, at least.”

James turned his head until he was looking at the side of Robbie’s beloved face. He wanted to bury his nose in Robbie’s neck, inhale particles of him into himself so that they would be a part of James forever, or at least the next seven years, wanted to tuck his hand under Robbie’s shirt and rub his belly until James’s own belly felt better. He then remembered he could probably do exactly both these things, and did so. Robbie placed his hand on James’s face as if it were something dear.

“I’m sorry I didn’t contact you,” James said, his voice sounding more broken than he intended.

Robbie leaned against him, wrapped his arm around James’s shoulders, but said nothing. They sat quietly for several minutes.

“Can’t imagine now what those postcards I kept waiting for would say: ‘Saw more bloody wheat today. Hope all is well, James.’”

James laughed. “’Managed to not die of heatstroke for third straight day. My best to Laura, James.’”

Robbie was smiling full now, in that way that pulled his whole face up and made James’s heart drop thuddingly into his gut. 

“Wish you were here, Love, James,’” he said. He wasn’t breathing right all of a sudden, and looked down at his hands twisting the fabric of Robbie’s jumper.

Robbie didn’t respond. James felt a kiss on his temple.

“Maybe one day we can go together.”

James looked at Robbie as if he were mental. “Did you even hear one word I was saying?”

 

**Seven long years I looked for you**

 

1 March, 2015

 

James tilted the book he was reading closer to the light on his bedside table. Robbie was snoring quietly beside him and James had no wish to wake him after the day they’d had chasing a suspect down Cowley just to lose him in the end. He adjusted his glasses and turned the page.

The hand on his arm was his only warning before Robbie starting speaking, “More fairy tales?”

James closed the book and allowed himself to lean closer to Robbie’s warmth. Though the days were getting warmer, cold air still seeped into the nights, reminding James of standing outside in the mountains of Spain, staring at the stars until his teeth were chattering with cold, hoping he would feel anything divine.

“I like them. They’re—” He inhaled; exhaled. “Optimistic.” He turned to see Robbie looking at him, sleepy eyes soft with understanding. Always, always trying to understand James, he was. “Do you think I’ll ever find her?”

“Not if she doesn’t want to be found. Or until she’s ready to talk about why she left.” Robbie’s hand was absently stroking James’s stomach as he talked. James pushed out his belly to feel more of it. Robbie, on point as usual, spread his hand flat against James’s skin.

A part of James that he hadn’t realized was tense relaxed. He put the book and his glasses on the bedside table careful not to knock off what was now ‘their stone’ and switched off the light before turning towards Robbie and mirroring him by placing his own palm on Robbie’s side. “It’s stupid of me to keep looking for answers.”

“No, lad. It’s not stupid. It’s hopeful.” The pressure of Robbie’s hand increased, warming him. “It’s the best part of you.”

“And here I thought it was what’s in my pants.”

“That was the surprising part.” Was Robbie blushing? He couldn’t tell in the dark, though Robbie did take on the most endearing flush of color whenever James talked about sex.

They hadn’t yet really talked about this, what had led them here tonight and other days since that first morning. James can’t contain the slight shiver as he remembered how earlier, after he had reminisced about all the methods he’d attempted to keep the skin around his waist from suffering from the incessant rubbing of his pack’s straps, Robbie had undressed him with the deliberate intention of kissing every scar on his hipbones and along his lower abdomen. James had been caught between laughing and moaning, but then Robbie’s mouth had closed over his cock, tentative, worshipful, and James had only been able to watch and try to catch his breath.

Perhaps each was avoiding the obvious elephant in the room, that while at his flat or Robbie’s, they could be this, whatever they were. But out there, on the job, or when Robbie phoned his kids, they were still navigating something previously unexamined in either of their lives. 

Though Robbie hadn’t maintained his recent public distance in the least. At the Blake exhibit, finally, when Robbie had commented on the darkness of the paintings, and James had tilted towards Robbie’s ear and murmured, “He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence,” and Robbie had grinned and pushed him away, only to then grab his hand and hold it until James had counted to four hundred fifty-six in his head.

It was enough to make James’s head spin, when he thought about it too much. Which, of course, he did.

“Gemma’s favorite fairy tale was East of the Sun, West of the Moon, in which our heroine lives with a polar bear in an enchanted castle by day. At night, she welcomes into her bed an unknown man, whom she isn’t allowed to see. It’s not until she betrays her captor’s trust and shines a light on his human form, that she realizes what she’s done.” It wasn’t a question, and it certainly wasn’t direct, so he could only hope Robbie would get at what he was trying to say. 

It only took Robbie a short minute to think about what James had said. “So I’m the polar bear in this scenario?”

James felt heat in his face and pushed it against the pillow, curled his hand against Robbie’s chest. “Something like that.”

“And then our girl goes on a really long walk to regain her polar bear’s trust.”

“Yes. Well, then she had to break the troll queen’s curse on the prince, but this isn’t an exact science.” He never wanted Robbie to believe James had ever blamed Laura for making him happy. He wondered if he should make that clearer. He turns so he is lying on his back, blinks in the darkness of the room.

Robbie’s fingers idly traced patterns on his chest. “But she succeeds,” he said.

“Yes, they escape and, we’re led to believe, live happily ever after.” James grabs Robbie’s hand, dragged it up so it covered his face, kissed the palm. 

Robbie, it seemed, wasn’t having any of James’s attempts to sidetrack him. He raised his head and rested it on his hand. “But why was she drawn to that story? It almost sounds as if Gemma thought her father was the one with the curse on him. Maybe he was the one she was trying to save.”

James had considered that as well, though the outcome of that scenario was too tragic to bear, given Gemma may not know the father she was trying to save was now dead. He turned back toward Robbie, ducked his head and fit it into the curve of Robbie’s neck, needing the contact to remind himself that not all stories are so bleak. He focused on the feeling of Robbie’s hand on his back.

“Well,” Robbie said, “I can see why you drew those parallels between you and her, but it really doesn’t match up.”

“Hm?” James had been distracting himself with Robbie’s chest hair, using it to tickle his hand, wondering if his calloused fingertips made Robbie’s skin more sensitive.

“I mean, the girl didn’t have a choice, did she? To live with the bear.”

James considered this. “It wasn’t under threat of death, no, but there was an element of coercion to her living with him.”

“So she may have broken some promise he asked of her, but that wasn’t really fair of him to do that.”

James smiled against Robbie’s skin, kissed it. “Spoken like a true feminist, Robbie.”

“Oh, go on. I get it. But we all make choices, just as she did. She could have left for home, instead of trying to make things right.”

“That… would have made it quite a different story,” James said before he busied himself mouthing at the straight dark hairs in Robbie’s armpit, undeterred by Robbie’s attempts to push him away.

“More realistic, maybe. Sadder.” Robbie finally succeeded in pushing James out from under him and stilled James with his palm on his cheek. “More like life is at times.” 

Though his eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, details were still obscured. However, James knew that Robbie’s eyes were bluer than anything he had ever seen. Bluer than the sky over Spain. James trusted that fact as he trusted he could lie here naked with Robbie in the dark and know he wouldn’t change in the morning into someone James didn’t know, even if they had to act differently around others for the moment.

“You chose to come back,” Robbie said. “You could have done anything, but you came back to Oxford.”

I do love the bells, James thought, but didn’t say. There wasn’t room for sarcasm in this conversation. His gaze traced every memorized line on Robbie’s face, from his forehead down his cheeks. Robbie’s hand was still on his cheek, so he turned his head to kiss his palm before taking it and placing it over his heart. A hopelessly cliched romantic gesture, maybe, but all he had available to him.

“You were here,” was all he said. 

 

***

 

**Now I’m lost in this gentle green land.**

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Please see [This Post](http://goddessdster.tumblr.com/post/109839457977/there-are-no-sunday-sentences) to read about me gushing over everyone who helped me with this story.
> 
> Title chapters are from Johnny Clewell's poem [The Iron Shoes.](http://endicottstudio.typepad.com/poetrylist/the-iron-shoes-by-johnny-clewell.html) Clicky link to read the entire amazing thing!
> 
> Story title from Simon & Garfunkel's "Kathy's Song"
> 
> There are several unattributed quotes in the story, including from Hafez, Anne Carson, JM Barrie, JRR Tolkein, WB Yeats, Tennyson, and Melville.
> 
> The book James reads is real, its title is Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: Women Writers Explore their Favorite Fairy Tales and is a definite recommend if you're interested in fairy tales.


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